


Revelation

by Zzzara



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Lucius Malfoy, Abusive Parents, Acceptance, Amortentia, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Ron Weasley, Barrister Hermione Granger, Bottom Harry Potter, Boy Erased, Boy Erased inspired, Boys In Love, Christianity, Closeted, Closeted Character, Closeted Draco Malfoy, Coming Out, Consensual, Consensual Sex, Consent, Consent Issues, Daily Prophet, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Depressed Draco Malfoy, Depression, Disguise, Disturbing Themes, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Emotionally Repressed, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Family, Family Bonding, Family Drama, Family Issues, Family Magic, Father-Son Relationship, Fear, Fidelius Charms, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, First Time Topping, Friends to Lovers, Gay, Gay Character, Gay Draco Malfoy, Gay Harry Potter, Gay Marriage, Gay Sex, Good Narcissa Black Malfoy, Hand Jobs, Happily Ever After, Happy Ending, Happy Sex, Hermione Granger is a Good Friend, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Humiliation, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Husbands, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Internalized Homophobia, Intimacy, Lawyers, Light Bondage, Loss of Trust, Love, Lucius Malfoy Being an Asshole, M/M, Magical House, Magical Inheritance, Malfoy Manor, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Music, Musical Instruments, Musical References, News Media, Newspapers, Nightmares, Non-Linear Narrative, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, Oral Sex, Outing, POV Alternating, POV Draco Malfoy, POV First Person, POV Harry Potter, POV Second Person, POV Third Person, Paparazzi, Past Rape/Non-con, Period-Typical Homophobia, Piano, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Press and Tabloids, Protection, Protection Magic, Protective Harry Potter, Psychological Trauma, Public Humiliation, Publicity, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Religion, Religious Content, Religious Fanaticism, Resolved Sexual Tension, Restraints, Revelation, Revelations, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, Secret Identity, Self-Hatred, Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Situational Humiliation, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Suffering, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Top Draco Malfoy, Trauma, Troye Sivan Revelation, Trust, Trust Issues, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Verbal Abuse, Verbal Humiliation, Violence, Violent Thoughts, Wizengamot, acceptance issues, architect draco malfoy, based on Boy Erased, enemies to husbands, gay conversion therapy, intimacy issues, sentient house
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2019-10-26 07:17:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17741381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zzzara/pseuds/Zzzara
Summary: Having barely begun to heal after the war, Draco Malfoy is betrayed in more than one way by a person he trusted. He ends up in a Muggle gay conversion facility, being put there by his own father, with no means of escape. No one seems to care for Draco’s sudden disappearance from the Wizarding world. No one but his good friend and Auror Potter.Excerpt:"I know I'm lost forever. From now on, I am not able to un-trust him.It's like falling in love, but deeper - more secure and safe. Something that's not easily undone, not with him.It’s a revelation.Have you ever fallen in trust?"





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This work is based on the film "Boy Erased", which in turn is based on the autobiographical novel "Boy Erased: A Memoir" by Garrard Conley that depicts a personal experience of the gay man who was carted off to the gay-conversion facility by his religious parents and survived.
> 
> Original soundtrack for the film "Boy Erased" was written by Troye Sivan & Jónsi and performed by Troye Sivan. The song is called 'Revelation' - it is piercingly beautiful, heartbreaking and hopeful. Writing this story, I listened to it excessively. And if you, Dear Reader, listen to it before reading - you may get the mood of this fic.
> 
> *************************************************  
> Any 'religious' methods of dealing with homosexuality featured in the fic are not my invention. They are taken directly out of the film 'Boy Erased'. Considering some of them are very disturbing, I don't want it to appear to be a religion-bashing on my part. I am not at all a religious person, but at the same time I acknowledge the fact, that some people (those who may take religion seriously) may find certain things in my fic offensive as a reference to Christianity. I don't want that to happen. So I think, I should say in advance, that nothing is invented in my fic regarding 'Christian methods' of treating homosexuality in gay-conversion facilities.  
> *************************************************
> 
> Eternally grateful to my wonderful betas: Rinny Lake (@catastrophelake on Tumblr), Anna Berti (@oldbritishgays) and Gemma (@potter-loves-malfoy)!!! Thank you so SO much for your skill, patience and precision! <3
> 
> Disclaimer: all characters belong to JK Rowling, Garrard Conley, Joel Edgerton and other rightful owners.
> 
> Don’t repost/copy this work to any other websites without my permission.
> 
> **********  
> Dear Reader, I hope you'll enjoy this story!

**Revelation**

 

Chapter 1

**Prologue**

Your parents are not at all religious and never have been.

 _"Religion,"_ your Father used to say, sneering at the word, "is a Muggle way of explaining Magic. Initial knowledge and understanding of things is what separates _us_ from Muggles. Never forget that, Son."

"Yes, Father," you used to say. And you never did, never forgot that.

It is all the more bewildering now to find yourself within a Muggle religious facility, having been placed here by no other than your Father himself.

"Homosexuality is a _choice._ It is a God-shaped hole in your heart that you choose to fill with sin!"¹ Mr. Vice's passionate voice fills the room.

Mr. Vice - your main coach and therapist - has a fascinating name indeed, considering what he is preaching. He’s in charge here.

"You strayed away from God's word, indulging in twisted desires that the Devil bestows upon you. You are broken but not worthless, God loves you!"

"I am broken but not worthless, God loves me!" You repeat dutifully, joining the chorus.

You don't believe in God or the Devil, but the truth of your broken, twisted nature is ingrained in you as firmly as your family name and obligations that you have no right to fail.

**

"I refuse to believe that my only son is to wallow in the most _disgusting_ perversion imaginable." Your Father's cane against the flagstones measured his pace around the study.

"That my only heir is to stoop as low as to even _think,_ that there is a _possibility_ of him being _homosexual._ " He spat the word in disdain. "Where have you even acquired this _ridiculous_ notion from, Draco?"

Studying your hands, you said nothing. What could you possibly have said? Let alone admit that you’d never _'acquired'_ anything, as Father had put it. You didn't need to. This _thing_ hadn't appeared out of nowhere, or attacked you from the outside. It had always been a part of you.

 _"Answer!"_ The cane stomped against the floor.

You flinched. "I don't know, Father."

"You _don't..._ know." He stopped in front of you.

"But _I_ do. I have always been opposed to your Mother's liberal ways of handling you. And... _Here. We. Are.”_ He spread his arms.

“I should have forbidden you to indulge in this weird fascination of yours in the Muggle arts and literature that had proved to be _inherently_ harmful. This _Forster_ man, this _'Maurice'_ novel and other homosexual stories..." He cringed. "Yes, I have leafed through the books in your study, Draco. Do you have _anything to say?"_

You didn’t. What was there to say? He was right. You didn't even bother to hide them or conceal the titles. Fool.

"In light of these recent events, your breakup with your fiancée takes on a menacing meaning, rather different to the one I foresaw."

A menace indeed. You could say that about your engagement with Pansy.

_"If it's not hard, I can make it hard," Pansy pressed her palm to the front of your trousers. The two of you were sitting on the bench in the Manor Park._

_You felt ill. "Shouldn't we wait until our wedding?" You asked, removing her hand._

_"Who would have thought you’d be such a prude Draco," she giggled._

_“Fuck off!” You bristled, springing to your feet._

_Though mad at her, you knew perfectly well that it was not her fault. You liked her, you did. Like a good friend. That was what you two had always been; nothing more. You broke up with her._

"Listening to what Theodore told me, I couldn't _believe_ my own ears. So ashamed I have never been in my _entire life._ And you don’t even bother to deny it."

You most definitely should've denied everything, but you hadn’t. Father had caught you off guard. You had a feeling that the main reason why he was so mad at you was that you’d turned out to be a moron who had admitted everything, leaving him with no choice but to deal with this _thing._

You had still been so shocked by what Theo had done that you hadn't even thought he might tell anyone, let alone your Father.

If he only knew the whole truth, and not only Theo’s part...

He’d better not know.

**

"Moral Inventory," Mr. Vice says, "meet our new friend. Henry, do please come forward."

Moral Inventory means a list of your sins, that you have to write down after searching deep in your heart. Your homosexual sins. You must read them aloud in front of the therapy group. And now it's Henry's turn.

He joined the group only a few days ago. A small mousy man, late thirties. Itchy and nervous, brown hair, dull features. You wouldn't recognise him on the street.

Unfolding a piece of paper, he begins to read: "I am a married man, and cannot wish for a better wife than merciful God bestowed me with."

You measure him up and down, trying to imagine a woman who'd be willing to go to bed with him. _Ugh_ . You don’t know about a woman… but you certainly would _not._

"But, the ungrateful sinner I am," he continues, and his head snaps up to look directly at you, "I find myself constantly thinking about men."

There's something subtly familiar about his manner or voice, you are not sure. Something long forgotten, barely there, but _still..._ You feel the urge to fidget under his gaze. You are relieved when he looks down at the piece of paper in his hands.

"I am grateful to my wife, who persuaded me to undergo this treatment, and I beg God to give me the strength not to waver and erase this sin from my soul." He looks up, eyeing the group.

"Are you _sure,_ Henry?" Mr. Vice says, "you may lie to us, but you cannot lie to _God_ . Are you sure you haven't possibly forgotten anything? Any encounter, any detail? Yes, there is a shame in voicing such things in front of people, but the greater shame is to refuse to admit to your sins. _God already knows."_ He lowers his voice dramatically.

"Yes..." Henry says, but his voice wavers, telling you that he is not at all sure. Not at all...

"No, _you are not._ Do tell us, what is it there is to tell?"

"There was this guy..." Henry stops, looking up at the ceiling.

 _"Yes?"_ Mr. Vice nods in encouragement. "We love you, Henry!" He waves at the group.

"We love you, Henry!" You repeat loudly.

"There was this _guy..._ " Henry is blinking. "Whom I performed a... sinful act with."

"What act exactly? There is no shame in admitting to your sins, Henry."

"He... brought me to a… er... sexual satisfaction... by his hand, and I... returned the favour." Henry covers his face. "We sinned at my home, when my wife was out of town."

"How many times, Henry?"

"Twice. Only twice. I swear," he mumbles, his voice muffled with his palms over his face.

"Good, Henry. Thank you for your honesty. You may sit down, you've done well. We love you, Henry!"

"We love you, Henry!" You repeat dutifully, along with everyone else.

Head bowed, Henry walks down the dais, heading to his chair. Passing, he throws you a brief glance.

You remember reading your own Moral Inventory to the group for the first time, more than two months ago. You’d begun exactly like Henry.

"I grew up in a good family, but my sinful nature took hold of me in my teenage years, making me stray away from God."

You'd spent the previous evening writing down that bullshit. You were doing as you'd been told, and even included certain Muggle details, so that your story would appear natural.

"I fantasised about boys at school, men on the streets, actors on TV and from my imagination. Because of those fantasies, I broke up with my fiancée, which brought great distress to both our families. My parents have sent me here in hope of turning me back to God and His way. I beg God to forgive me, to cure me and save me from my sin."

You were about to head to your seat, when Mr. Vice stopped you.

"No, Drake, I don't think you are telling the whole truth." He shook his head. "Have you searched through your heart thoroughly?"

You instantly realised what was required.

 _‘Do as you are told, Draco,’_ your Father used to say. You had always been good at doing as you were told. It had its benefits.

"I beg you to forgive me, but I haven’t been entirely honest with you." You bowed your head.

"Don't be afraid. We love you, Drake!"

"We love you, Drake!" The group echoed.

The only thing you were afraid of at that point was not getting _the fuck out_ of this place any time soon. Making up a bunch of bullshit was nothing, nothing at all.

"Upon graduating from school, I went to college in London. There on the campus, I was sharing a dormitory with a young man. For two years we were pretending to be roommates, while in fact, all that time, we were indulging in the homosexual sin together. We performed to each other every physical act of sexual intimacy that is forbidden between man and man by God."

Vice liked it a lot, and you earned applause from the group.

Every word of it was a lie.

You’d never been intimate with a man. Not like _that,_  anyway.

You’d rather die than tell anyone what had really happened.

**

You and Theo had known each other since forever. You’d never been best friends, but got along just fine. It was only after Hogwarts that you realised you liked him.

After the war, during those two years of your house arrest, you’d got interested in art. You’d begun reading books for nothing better to do, and soon discovered that architecture and sculpture drew you the most. So, once you were free to leave the Manor, the first thing you did was visit the National Gallery. There you bumped into Theo, who was no less fascinated than you.

From there your friendship grew. You attended every exhibition together; you took a course in the Muggle Arts College. You were astonished to discover how talented and creative Muggles were; how Wizards’ art, literature and music were nothing compared to theirs. You dived into it, hungry for new discoveries, spending entire days in London, returning to the Manor only late at night. It didn't bother your Mother much; she mainly wanted you to be happy. And with your Father in Azkaban, no one was there to stop you.

Around the same time, you realised that you liked Theo more than a friend should. It didn't come as a surprise, but you knew that you'd never act on it. Nothing could ever happen. Muggle arts is one thing, but for someone like you, with your upbringing and family duties, _this_ was forbidden to even think about. Your Father didn't have to be around for you to understand that.

Two years you spent tiptoeing around Theo, trying hard not to give yourself away. You felt that he might like you in return, that he might already _know._

So when he invited you to his house, saying that his parents were away for the night, it filled you with fear and anticipation. But whatever you may have expected from him, it wasn't what had actually happened.

As soon as you sat down on the sofa in his living room, he excused himself.

"Make yourself at home, I'll be in a minute," he said, handing you a glass.

"What's this?" You asked, eyeing a golden-brown liquid.

"Just you taste and find out." He winked, heading out of the room.

It smelled odd. Not bad, but _odd._ It smelled _like..._ beneath the smokiness of Firewhisky, there was something else... something that had no business to be there. You closed your eyes. Parchment and worn leather of the library sofa, a faint whiff of Theo's cologne... and you almost heard his quiet laughter in your ear, which felt _almost_ like a touch of his fingertips at the back of your hand...

Your eyes snapped open to land on Theo in the doorway. His smile was knowing, and his bathrobe was open in the middle. He pushed himself off the doorframe.

"You've changed your clothes," you said dumbly, staring at the dark trail of hair that ran down from his navel to that place where his cock stood out, bobbing in front of him as he walked.

He said nothing. You put the glass down.

When he finally stopped in front of you, shrugging the bathrobe off... you thought you were prepared. You thought you were capable of handling it. You thought you knew what was to come. That's why you didn't even try to reach for your wand.

Later, thinking about it, you couldn't remember exactly what had happened in detail, your memory supplying you with only distorted flashes:

... sharp pain from him grabbing a fistful of your hair, forcing your face down...

... your shock, rendering you unable to resist...

... your eyes tearing up, when you were choking on his dick in your mouth...

... finally, you came to your senses when Theo was writhing on the floor in agony, and the wand in your hand didn't waver. You’d ceased casting Crucio only when his screams deafened you.

The next three days you left your bed only to brush your teeth until you were spitting blood into the sink and to stand unmoving under the scalding shower.

"I think I’ve got a fever," you said, covering your head with a blanket when Mother knocked on your door.

"Father is being released in a week, dear." She sat at the foot of your bed.

"I see."

You didn't know how you felt about it. Father was being released on bail, on a sum huge enough to buy another Manor. The sum, Mother said, had cost almost everything from the Malfoy vaults. It allowed your Father to shorten his term in Azkaban from ten years to four.

Those years without his constant presence, without his measuring looks and immaculate posture, had brought something into your life that you'd never had before. Something like freedom. Something that would be taken away as soon as he stepped into the Manor again. Something that didn't have the right to exist when Father was near.

"Are you happy, dear?" Mother's voice was quiet, she stroked your leg through the blanket.

"Yes."

"So am I," Mother said, but she didn't sound like it.

You both knew everything was about to change.

"Excuse me, Mother," you said, "I am unwell. I'm afraid this thing may be catching."

When she had left the room, your face crumpled, and the pillow under your cheek became damp.

You had been going on like this ever since. Even now, three months later. One moment you'd be good and calm, and the next something would trigger a vivid flash of memory, bringing all your anger and self-hatred to the surface. _How could you?_ How had you even allowed him to do this to you? Why didn't you throw him off? Why didn’t you fight back? Why didn't you kill him on the spot, as soon as you realised that he’d put Amortentia into your Firewhisky? Why had he done it in the first place? When you liked him... and even more? When you trusted him enough to feel safe in his presence...

If there were answers to those questions, you would never find them.

**

"Nice jewellery."

The voice makes you jump. That mousy Henry-guy. How long has he been sitting on the porch next to you? Your mind is a bit hazy these days; little things escape your notice, you can never tell the details for sure.

"What?" You turn to him.

"Your bracelet, I mean." He points at your wrist.

You nod.

"Is it a gift?"

"Yes. From my Mother."

You trace the platinum band with your finger, feeling as the ridges of the intricate crest with the capital 'M' in the centre graze your skin. This thing is holding you here, hostage to your Father's will.

 _"It is for your own good, Draco,"_ he said, closing the bracelet with a flick of his wand,  _"you will be grateful."_

 _"Yes, Father,"_ you said, feeling as if all your senses were being dimmed down.

As long as this thing is around your wrist, your Father knows your whereabouts. As long as the bracelet is there, you are as good as a Squib.

"Beautiful," Henry says, "your family must be wealthy."

You nod.

What the fuck does the man want? The patients are neither allowed to speak to each other privately, nor to approach one another closer than five feet.

"Ponder!" The voice says from behind. "Patients are forbidden to chat privately."

"Sorry, sorry!" Henry springs to his feet. "I forgot, I'm new here. Sorry!"

You follow him with your eyes as he disappears indoors, followed closely by Mr. Vice’s assistant Nicholas.

What the hell was that?

Your thoughts are swimming lazily.

Probably nothing.

 _Henry Ponder._ What a ridiculous name. Though _Drake Melroy_ doesn't sound any better.

**

Harry Potter crossed his arms, eyeing his visitor up and down.

"Potter."

Harry raised his eyebrows in question.

" _Auror_ Potter," the woman corrected herself, mirroring his posture.

"What do you want?" Harry perched at the edge of his desk.

He wasn't at all happy to see Pansy Parkinson in his office. _Absolutely fucking not, thank you very much._ Especially when she was asking him to find Draco sodding Malfoy.

"I'm telling you, he's been kidnapped. He's been missing for _three_ _months!_ " Parkinson walked around Ron's desk to sit down in the chair.

"That's Ron's desk," Harry said automatically, "he won't be happy when he returns."

"If you won't offer a chair to your visitor, let your friend suffer." The woman did have the nerve!

"You are not my _visitor_ , you've just barged in," Harry snapped. Honestly, could she be more annoying? "I don't do visitors. And it's lunchtime anyway."

"Potter, _please_." She looked at him, her voice suddenly serious. "I need your help."

"Why _me?_ " Harry asked, exasperated. "I'm not even in charge here. Anyway, the case should be filed using official procedure; it may not even end up on my desk."

"Because no one gives a fuck that he's missing! As soon as they heard that he was kidnapped by his own father, they laughed in my face. Do you think I haven't tried to alert the Aurors?"

It sounded crazy indeed. "Why would his father kidnap him?"

"Potter, do hear me out. Please. And then you can tell me if it's a bunch of bullshit or not."

"Why do you think that _I_ give a fuck?"

"Because that's what you do. You’ve never tolerated injustice." Parkinson raised her chin.

"And you know me so well?"

" _Everyone_ knows this about you, Potter. Please." She winced. "You can tell _me_ to fuck off all you want. Just help find Draco."

Harry ran his palm over his face. There was something in her manner, something desperate. He knew perfectly well how the case of _Malfoy's_ disappearance would go in the Auror Office.

"Okay, fine. Begin at the beginning. Don't waste my time."

**

"Now, Jared, I want you to address this chair as if it were your father, and tell him everything that makes you angry. Come on, everything you hate about him, you can say now."² Mr. Vice squeezes Jared's shoulder in reassurance and steps back, leaving the boy in the middle of the room, facing the empty chair.

"I don't know," Jared says after a long silence, "I have nothing to tell."

Jared is a newbie. He's been here less than two weeks. You can already tell, he's the problematic sort. The son of a Christian preacher, he refuses to play along. And unless he's going to pretend, he may never leave this fucking place. He may even end up in the one of the _houses_ behind the wall, where they shut up the most hopeless cases. You’d even told him so the other day. You’d met him alone on the porch, during the afternoon session break, hastily trying to talk some sense into him in the span of those two minutes. Looks like your advice was given in vain.

"Come on. Let your anger out, channel it at your father! Tell him you hate him!"

"I don't hate him," Jared shakes his head.

"You _do,_  Jared. You all do. That is why you are here." Mr. Vice comes close, making Jared step back.

It's the theory they base their system on: the sins of the fathers make their sons gay. Alcohol, drugs, violence and even divorce in the family inevitably lead to homosexuality, they say, selling this bullshit to those willing to pay for it in the hope of being 'cured.'

Maybe Muggles are idiots, after all; you don't know. But it's obvious to you that your condition cannot be changed. If you ever want to get out of here, you have to play the part and show them that it's working, that you're getting better, you're getting _straight,_ so that their report will finally satisfy your Father, and he'll bring you back home.

"You want me to pretend that I hate my father!" Jared raises his voice. "I don't hate my father!"

"Then where does all this _anger_ come from?!" Mr. Vice pokes him in the chest.

"Because _you_ are making me angry!"³ The boy shoves him away. "Get off me!" He runs down the steps of the dais and along the aisle between the chairs, heading to the door.

"Jared!" Mr. Vice bellows. "You stop _now!_ "

"Fuck off! You are all crazy here!" Jared wrenches the door open. “All of you!” His voice echoes in the hall.

He doesn't hate his father. Lucky boy.

**

"Draco."

"Father." You stepped into his embrace.

"Finally, Son." He patted your shoulders lightly.

Azkaban had changed him. Painfully thin, with his grey hair cropped short and gaunt features, he looked so frail that if it were anyone else but your Father, the only thing you could have felt towards this man would be pity. Why, then, was his mere presence sending your heart racing? Where did this fear even come from? But there you were: on your tiptoes, feeling eleven again, seeking his approval.

"Let's lead your Father to his bedroom, dear," Mother said, "first he needs a rest, and then we will talk to our hearts' content."

The cheerfulness of her tone made you look up. She took Father by the arm, pulling him towards the staircase. But there was something about her face, as though she’d shut down everything free and genuine and alive that had been there only a day before. It was exactly how you felt.

"Master is been return," the elf announced into the empty entrance hall.

The next morning, when your Father summoned you straight out of bed, you knew immediately that something was wrong. How terribly wrong, however, you realised only upon seeing his face.

"Come in!" He called, when you knocked on the door of his study.

Bracing yourself, you entered to find him with his back to you, facing the fireplace.

"Father."

"Do sit down," he said quietly, still not turning to look at you.

You did.

Silence fell, dragging out long minutes, as he stood there motionless. Not daring to breathe, you stared at his back.

When he finally turned, his face was devoid of any emotion. Still not looking at you, he walked to the desk, gesturing at the Pensieve sitting on his desk.

"Do me a favour."

"What?.."

_"Now."_

You stood up and approached the desk. The grim swirling contents of the basin looked smoky-grey.

Having barely lowered your face to its surface, you jerked back with a cry. Theo's writhing naked form on the floor was a constant presence in your nightmares. Something squeezed in your throat, rendering you unable to breathe; your mind went blank.

"Do you have anything to say?" Father's voice was almost a whisper.

Your heart racing, you stared at him.

"Sit," he ordered. You dropped into the armchair.

"This morning, your friend contacted me," Father sat down at the desk, "to tell me a thing so _shocking_ that I still cannot believe it." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "But the _memories_ he has shown me..." He slammed his palm at the desk, making you jump.

"Explain yourself!"

Staring at him in horror, you shook your head. If you had words, you would have told him everything, but you had none.

"My only son and heir is a _pervert,_  forcing himself on his friend."

Theo had turned the story around, telling your Father that you had tried to rape him and then Crucioed him when you hadn’t got what you wanted.

"Is this _true?!"_ Fathershouted. "Are you _HOMOSEXUAL?!"_

Helpless before his ire, you didn't deny it as you should have. Everything must have been written across your face, for one look at you made him cringe.

He didn't ask you if Theo had told him the truth about the rape.

**

"Draco."

You couldn't see your Mother's face in the dark room. Having been lying in bed all day long, you hadn't bothered to turn on the lights.

"It's not true," you said to her back, silhouetted in twilight against the window.

"All of it?" Her voice was cautious.

"No. The...." Struggling to say the word, you stopped and took a breath.

"Rape..." You forced out. "Is a lie."

Your Mother exhaled. "And the rest?"

"Is true."

Looking at her sideways from your bed, you saw she was nodding. She wasn't surprised.

"But... why would Theo?.."

"Let's not talk about it."

"Draco... is there _anything?.."_

You didn't let her finish. "I _don’t_ want to talk about it."

"I am sorry, dear," she said.

You turned your back to her, hugging the pillow.

After a long silence, there was a quiet click of the closing door.

**

"I cannot _believe,_  My Dear, that you have been allowing _this_ in my absence." Father threw the magazine on the coffee table.

‘ _Italian Sculpture,’_ the title read.

"That you let him _indulge_ in such things." Wincing, Father gestured at Michelangelo's David, pictured at the front cover in all his glory. "No wonder where these morbid inclinations come from."

Mother put her cup down, saying nothing, only glancing at you briefly.

She was sorry, she pitied you; she didn't know how to help.

"You are lucky _indeed_ , Draco," your Father finally addressed you for the first time since the conversation began, "that I persuaded Theodore not to make it public. I had promised him to deal with you by my own means."

"Lucius -" Mother began, but you didn't let her finish.

"Thank you, Father," you said, and when she stared at you, you briefly shook your head. You absolutely couldn't let her say what she'd been going to.

"You have to be grateful indeed. I have found the means to fix your _unfortunate_ condition. Regrettably, Wizards hadn’t found a treatment for it yet. But Muggles have. Muggle ways led you there, Muggle ways will cure you."

With a wave of his hand, a pile of blue and green brochures landed on your lap.

 _‘LOVE IN ACTION,’*_ read the capital letters, and below in a smaller font: _‘Your path out of sin to God's Kingdom.’_

Dumbly you stared at them; the words didn't make any sense.

"This religious Muggle _nonsense_ is not my concern, Draco," Father said, picking up one of the brochures from your lap, "but they say that, apart from a prayer, they have their ways of dealing with your condition, which have proven to be effective indeed. You are to do as you are told, do you _understand?_ I need a _Man_ and an _Heir_ back as soon as possible."

"Yes, Father."

"You are to depart tomorrow morning. Have the elves pack your things for you. You are to stay there as long as it takes to get you back to normal. It is a Muggle facility, so your Muggle clothes and knowledge," he spat the words in distaste, "will serve a good purpose for once."

"Yes, Father." You stood up to leave.

"Sit down, I am not finished."

He headed to the wall behind his desk and touched it briefly with the tip of his wand in a pattern. A small vault opened in the middle, and he retrieved something out of it, making the vault close and blend back into the wall with the same series of taps.

"Hold out your right wrist."

When you obeyed, he closed the metal bracelet around it with a click, waving his wand several times around your wrist. He didn't have to tell you what it was. By the dull numb feeling starting in your very core, by the way it was spreading down your limbs, dimming the brightness of the world around you, you already knew.

"It is for your own good. So you won't be tempted to leave the place. Thus, you will not give your magic away in front of Muggles, and I will always know where you are. No one but me is able to remove it, its magic is tied to the Malfoy family bond."

"Yes, Father," you repeated for the thousandth time; it was the only thing you were good for.

"I trust you to put effort into this, Son. Everything depends on you and your willingness to change," Father said before finally dismissing you.

When Mother entered your room that evening, you were already in bed.

"Your Father and I had a row," she said, sitting down at the foot of your bed.

"I told him that Theo had made it all up, but he wouldn't listen... He said you admitted it to be true. Draco, why?.."

"I told you, I won't talk about it, Mother." You tried to turn to your other side, but she gripped your shoulder.

"Why are you refusing to tell him the truth?! What had happened?"

"Nothing."

You knew you would never be able to put into words what had really happened. You would never let your Father know what you had allowed Theo to do to you. You would never tell him that Theo had forced his dick into your mouth and you couldn't fight him off, allowing it to happen.

You shrugged your Mother's hand off and turned your back to her. Your throat was squeezing, you blinked the tears away.

"And anyway, it won't change his decision to send me to that facility... Theo is not his main concern."

You know your Father. He would have sent you there even without Theo’s story. You were gay, and you had to be cured.

"I am so sorry all this is happening, my dear." Mother stroked your hair.

"But they say, a lot of Muggles, having undergone their treatment, come out fully changed. Your Father and I see no reason they won't be able to fix a wizard. It will be alright, dear. We will visit."

"Yes," you said, feeling a tear rolling out of the corner of your eye. You didn't think there was a way to fix you, to fix it all.

**

"You dance so well, Drake," Ivy says breathlessly, as you are waltzing her around the room, "where did you learn?"

"Traditional upbringing." You smile at her, and she grins back.

She is small, the top of her head barely reaches your chin. She is tilting her face up to meet your eyes. She is funny and smart, and very pretty. She's a lesbian, 17, carted off by her parents to this place.

It is Friday night, and you are having a party. Nothing wild. Formal dancing and no alcohol.

Dancing is strongly encouraged here for your 'healing process.’ Waltz and Foxtrot. Nothing indecent. No Tango, _God forbid._

Man-and-woman, boy-and-girl, M-and-F, couples swirl around. Those, at least, who know how to swirl. Those who don’t sway modestly in place, shuffling their feet to the music.

You must admit, you're having a good time. You always liked dancing, always were good at it, and you do have all the classic ballroom techniques up your sleeve. So when you swirl Ivy effortlessly, she laughs - she's enjoying it, too - and it makes you feel good for the first time in ages.

At the edge of your vision, Mr. Vice hangs by the wall, scribbling something in his tiny notebook  he always carries around.

 _Good,_ you think. For the past two weeks, the reports had been quite satisfactory - _quite,_  your Father had told you during his last visit. You have no idea how long he plans to keep you here, or what result, exactly, he expects to see. But good reports from Mr. Vice bring you closer to freedom. So you try your best and hope.

"Do you ever get tired, Drake?!" Ivy asks.

She's very nice, and you like her a lot; as a friend. Why is it necessary to fake this attraction of a different kind between woman and man? The one that will never be there. But you know that she's trying hard, too, and you want to help her.

"Me, tired? _Never!_ " You laugh, swirling her faster, turning your waltz into something grotesque and silly, making heads turn in your direction. Let them. Let Mr. Vice's tiny notebook be full of the notes on you from this evening.

"Ouch!" Someone bumps into you.

"Sorry!" You say automatically, steadying the man by the arm.

Only then you realise, it's Henry. Henry Ponder and his partner Miranda. Before you almost knocked them out with your waltz, they'd been peacefully shuffling their feet by the wall, not getting in the way of those who really _dance._

"Sorry," you repeat.

"No problem," Henry says.

His gaze makes you uneasy. What is the guy up to? For the last few days, you've been bumping into him a lot. At first, you thought it was an accident. Now, you don't think so; not at all. Is the man hitting on you, or what? You should probably report him, otherwise he may get you into trouble. You don't want your flawless record spoiled, do you?

A sudden noise and a commotion in the doorway make you turn. You see the staff uniforms, and among them two guys are being dragged inside.

"What's going on?" Ivy asks, and you realise that you are still holding her hand.

Mr. Vice says something to the staff, while Chris and Paul are standing with their heads bowed. Mr. Vice is gesticulating furiously with his hands, and two men head to the door, followed by the two staff members. You realise that the music has suddenly ceased playing.

"What does it mean?" Henry asks.

You shrug; hell if you know, but obviously the guys have got into trouble.

"Dear friends," Mr. Vice says into the microphone, "do forgive us this little inconvenience. Please enjoy your evening!"

The music resumes, and you tug at Ivy's hand, pulling her to the dance floor and away from Henry.

**

"Let us all pray for these two misguided souls, begging God to forgive them their sins!"

Mr. Vice is kneeling right next to you in the circle, and his voice is too loud in your ear.

Chris and Paul are on their knees in the centre, while the entire group is praying for their redemption.

Last night, during the party, the two men had been caught snogging outside. Idiots. It turns non-existent their chances of getting out of here any time soon. Their parents have been informed. They are here in the circle, too, kneeling among the rest of you.

"Letting the Devil tempt their souls last night, Paul and Christopher committed a sin, indulging in physical intimacy with each other. Had they not been stopped by the staff members, the consequences would have been even more menacing. They deserve a punishment and should atone. Do their parents agree?"

"Yes... yes," the voices reply from the opposite side of the circle.

"Do Christopher and Paul agree?"

"Yes... I do... I do," the guys in the centre repeat with their heads bowed.

"Do pray, dear friends, for their redemption. Do beg God to forgive them!"

Silence falls.

You clasp your hands in front of you and close your eyes, bowing your head low. You had learned quickly that this posture is the best for such occasions.

Several minutes pass in silence, disturbed only by a heartfelt whispering of a prayer around the circle. The crane of your neck is uncomfortable, and your knees begin to ache.

"Now, anyone may come forward and strike the sinners⁴. Parents, do come forward!" Mr. Vice rises on his feet, gesturing to the group to stand up.

He goes up to the parents - the two middle-aged couples - handing them a Bible.

"Beat the sin out of them with the Holy Book!"

One of the fathers takes it, heading straight to the kneeling Christopher, and hits him on the back, hard. The sound is loud in the silent room.

After a few more blows, the man hands the Bible to his wife, walking away. When he approaches, you see that his face is streaked with tears.

The procedure repeats, again and again. Now Paul is being punished by his father. His shoulders are hunched, and he tries not to make a sound, but the sight of his crying face makes tears well up in your eyes.

Every strike makes you wince and want to cover your ears. You are thinking vaguely about your own Father. Would he have done that to you? If he believed in all this nonsense, he undoubtedly would have.

"Anyone may come forward and punish the sinners!" Mr. Vice's voice makes you jump.

You are sure no one will come forward. So when Tom and Jake do, you feel sick.

"This is some fucked up shit," someone says behind you, "is no one going to stop it?!"

You turn and see Henry's mousy, livid face.

You push past him, making your way to the exit.

When you reach the door, a shout makes you turn. In the circle, Henry shoves Tom away from Christopher's hunched form. It’s an unexpectedly powerful movement for such a small man. Mr. Vice is shouting, ordering Henry to step back.

Enough. You need to lie down. You run down the corridor to your room.

**

"Name?"

"Henry Ponder."

Henry showed his ID card to the man in the uniform at the reception area.

"One moment, please." The man scanned the computer screen in front of him. _'Alex'_ was written on the badge on his chest.

"Yes. There you are, Mr. Ponder. Please, follow me."

"It is quiet here," Henry said, dragging his valise along the corridor past the identical dark wooden doors.

"The group is having a morning session at the moment," Alex replied, "here we are." He stopped in front of the door with the number 238.

"This is your room, Mr. Ponder." He pressed the handle, beckoning Henry to follow him inside.

"You don't need the key. You are neither allowed to invite anyone to your room, nor visit other patients' rooms here. Rules."

Henry nodded, looking around. The room with a single bed was simple but nice. It looked like any room in any random decent hotel.

"Meals are served in the dining room three times a day, according to the schedule that you'll find in your bedside drawer. You may unpack your valise and come downstairs in an hour. I will escort you to the group session area."

"Thank you, Alex," Henry said to the man's retreating back, beginning to unpack his things.

**

"Patients of the same sex are not allowed to approach each other closer than within a distance of five feet."

"No physical contact between the patients of the same sex is allowed, with the exception of the briefest of handshakes."

"Bra should be worn for women at all times, with the exception of bedtime."

"Trousers are not allowed for women. Skirts or dresses should be worn at all times; the hem of a skirt or a dress should cover the knee."

"Shirts with sleeves are worn at all times, including bedtime. Short sleeves and tank tops are not allowed."

"Private conversations between patients are not allowed. Everything you say, you say openly for anyone to hear."

"Verbal and physical contact (within limits of modesty) between patients of the opposite sex is encouraged."

"Ballroom dancing (within limits of modesty) between patients of the opposite sex is encouraged."

"Masculine sports for men are encouraged."

"Feminine hobbies for women are encouraged."

"Any explicit, erotic or pornographic materials of any kind are forbidden."

"This is some fucked up shit," Henry Ponder thought, but said nothing, listening to the Rules of ‘LOVE IN ACTION' that were being read aloud by the patients in turns.

"Masturbation is forbidden," read the blond guy from the row ahead.

Although all Henry could see was the guy's bright-blond hair, styled so neatly that no strand was out of place, and a high collar of his white shirt... Henry knew perfectly well who he was. He would recognise him with his eyes closed, by the voice alone.

 _‘LOVE IN ACTION, Kent. Drake Melroy.’_ the letter he'd received a week ago from Narcissa Malfoy had read.

**

You called in sick for today. All this business with Chris and Paul made you physically ill.

Idiots, why would someone even do such a thing in a place like this? No doubt their parents will shut them here for good. The memory of the Bible falling down across Paul's head makes you wince and squeeze your eyes shut. _Fuck._

Paul’s parents are not at all like Jared’s. After he’d lashed out, calling Mr. Vice crazy, his mum had taken him home immediately.

They say she shouted _‘Shame on you!’⁵_ at Mr. Vice, and requested his qualification to perform such things on the patients.

She also shouted _‘Shame on me!’_ out of the car window, driving Jared away. Lucky boy.

You exhale. You miss your Mother. Father always visits alone. What does she truly think? Does she truly believe you can be turned straight? You don't know.

The sound of the door handle turning startles you. It's almost midnight, and you haven't turned the lights on.

The door opens and closes quietly, and now you feel someone's presence in the room. Afraid to breathe, you lie unmoving, your heart going mad.

The footsteps are light, barely audible on the carpet. They approach and stop by the bed, and now you see a dark silhouette against the window.

"Malfoy?" the voice whispers loudly, and the light flickers alive at the tip of a wand.

You squint, not able to make out the features of the person behind it. Their hand hovers above the bedside table, reaching for the lamp. And finally, when the light switches on, you stare dumbly in the mousy face of Henry fucking Ponder. You understand nothing anymore.

"Malfoy," he repeats, "it's you. I had to check, hadn’t been sure I was in the right room."

"What?.. what do you want?" This is surreal. You sit up.

"Come on, we're wasting time." Ponder clutches your wrist in a deadly grip.

"What the _fu..."_ is all you manage to utter, before the room around you swirls and everything goes black.

**

______________________________________________________________________

[1]: _"Homosexuality is a choice. It is a God-shaped hole in your heart that you choose to fill with sin."_ – quote from the film ‘Boy Erased’.

[2]: _“Now, Jared, I want you to address this chair as if it were your father, and tell him everything that makes you angry. Come on, everything you hate about him, you can tell now."_ – scene from the film ‘Boy Erased’.

[3]: _" - Then where all this anger comes from?!_

_\- Because you are making me angry!"_

\- dialogue from the film ‘Boy Erased’.

[4]: _“Anyone may come forward and strike the sinner”_ \- scene from the film ‘Boy Erased’.

[5]: _“Shame on you! And shame on me!” –_ quote from the film ‘Boy Erased’.

 _* ‘LOVE IN ACTION’ –_ the actual name of the gay-conversion therapy institution, which operated in the USA, and where Jared (the protagonist of the film ‘Boy Erased’), and Garrard Conley (the author of the novel ‘Boy Erased: A Memoir’, based on the real life events) had been sent to by their religious parents.


	2. Revelation

Chapter 2

**Revelation**

 

_You're a revelation_

_Won't you liberate me now?_

_From a holy bound_

_You're a revolution_

_I will liberate you now_

_As the walls come down_

_\--Troye Sivan & Jónsi, ‘Revelation’, OST for the film ‘Boy Erased’-- _

"Fuck."

My head hurts. Trying to open my eyes, I squint.

"Malfoy." The figure looms over me. "You okay?"

I am not okay. I feel as though I’ve been hit by a train.

"No." I try to sit up, but the hands on my shoulders force me to lie back down on the pillow.

The lamp is right behind him, so I still can't discern the man's features, but his voice is familiar to the point of being ridiculous. Because _no_ ... _No way_ could this be happening.

_What the everloving fuck?_

"Where am I?"

"My place." He finally moves to sit down by the bed. And I stare into the specky face of Harry _fucking_ Potter.

"What the fuck?" I sit up and wince, my head swimming.

"Lie down." Potter reaches out, trying to push me back onto the pillow.

"Get off me!" I bat his hand away. "What the actual fuck? Why am I here?"

"I Apparated you out of that batshit crazy place." Potter crosses his arms. "At Parkinson's request. Your mother helped me to track you down."

_"Henry Ponder?"_

"I had to check first." He nods, standing up. "Had to make sure you were being held there against your will."

I haven't seen Potter for several years. He hasn't changed much. It only seems like he's grown, adding several inches, and now he's tall, around my own height, maybe. So unlike _Henry Ponder._

"Sorry, I had to knock you out a bit, once we'd landed. Had to arrange some things first. I informed your Mother that you’re here."

I look down at my wrist. The bracelet is still there. _Which means..._

"And my Father?" I ask, chills going down my spine. Because Potter may have dragged me out of there, but it doesn't matter. It doesn’t mean anything, as long as I’m wearing this thing. Father will be here in no time. And this time he'll shut me in another mental institution forever.

"You Father has gone bonkers. He knew instantly when you’d left the place. But he can't track you down here. My home is under Fidelius."

I squint at him. "Why are you doing this, Potter?"

"It's my job," he says, heading to the door, "we'll talk tomorrow."

I think I won’t be able to sleep, but I pass out instantly.

**

Waking up in the morning, I realise that I've slept with my clothes on. Black trousers and a white shirt that I chose as my ‘LOVE IN ACTION’ 'uniform' to wear at all times. It strikes me that _Potter_ must have removed my shoes last night, before putting me to bed. Who else? I don’t remember taking them off on my own.

_Brilliant._

I feel sick.

I look like shit in the bathroom mirror. In a need of a shower and a change of clothes, which I don't have here with me. _Fuck._ I am under Potter's roof, and this is humiliating.

The clock on the wall shows half past seven. Now what? As much as it pains me, I have to find Potter. Putting my shoes on, I leave the room.

The old staircase creaks under my feet.

"I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Potter. I don't know if I will ever be able to repay you." My Mother's voice reaches my ears, and I stop in my tracks near the kitchen door.

"I only did my job," Potter replies, "and anyway, I owe you a Life Debt."

Mother doesn't reply for a while.

"You know full well I didn't invoke it, Mr. Potter. It was only your own kindness that had helped bring Draco back."

"Master," croaks the voice, "young Master Malfoy is been eavesdropping outside."

_Shit._

I enter the kitchen. Potter, in the dark blue uniform of an Auror, is kneeling in front of the fireplace. He turns at the sound of my footsteps.

"Thanks, Kreacher," he says to the ancient elf, who is stirring something on the stove.

Glaring at the damned creature, I approach the fireplace.

"Draco, dear," Mother says from the green flickers of the Floo.

"Mother."

"Draco, I am so sorry... I blame myself for all this, for not acting earlier."

I look at my feet; I don't know what to say. That it's not her fault? That she's done nothing wrong? We both know that's not true.

Potter beside me clears his throat. "Will you excuse me...?” He stands up. "I have to check something." He heads to the door.

I glance at his back, feeling oddly grateful that he's allowing us this moment of privacy.

"How's Father?" I ask.

"Angry... bewildered. Searching everywhere. You know your Father..."

I know my Father.

"I do." I look up at her, and there is such pain written across her face.

"Draco, I don't know if you will ever forgive me for allowing this to happen to you..."

I don’t want to listen to this. No matter what she may say now, it won’t change what had already happened. I kneel in front of the fireplace. "Does he know that you had something to do with my escape?"

"No, I don't think he does. Not yet... Draco, listen... you cannot leave this place. I've talked to Mr. Potter. You have to stay here for the time being."

"What?! Absolutely not."

I cannot even imagine Potter and I under the same roof, let alone _his_ roof.

"Where would you rather go?" Potter asks from the doorway. "Your Father will grab you as soon as you set foot outside. Without magic..."

He's right.

"Pansy offered for you to move to her house, but there you would be easy to track," Mother says, "please, Draco. Mr. Potter kindly offers his help, and you are not in a position to refuse. You will be safe here; meanwhile, I will try to persuade your Father to remove the bracelet."

"How long?"

"As long as it takes," Potter says, "you may stay here for as long as it takes."

The Floo connection suddenly breaks, and I stare at the empty fireplace in silence.

"Er... okay, fine..." Potter says, while I scramble on my feet.  

"I have to leave now... for the Ministry... for work. You may... you know..." He gestures with his hand. "Eat... take a bath... and such. If you need anything, ask Kreacher." He scratches his nose. "I mean, if you want... anyway, see you in the evening." He grabs a handful of Floo Powder from the jar on the mantle.

"Thank you, Potter."

He nods and steps into the Floo.

I feel ill.

**

"Your are officially missing." Potter drops the newspaper onto the table in front of me. "Your father has alerted the Aurors _and_ the Prophet. And this is fucking ridiculous, because there had already been a case on your disappearance. _My_ case. So technically it's the same, and they've put the two cases together. So now I'm investigating your disappearance for your Father."

My face looks at me from the Prophet's front cover.

_‘MALFOY HEIR: KIDNAPPED, MISSING, OR DEAD?’_

We are sitting in the kitchen, and Potter's elf serves us dinner.

This morning, after Potter left, Mother had sent her elf with my clothes and some money and stuff. He had lurked on the street, not able to see the house, until Kreacher had noticed him.

When Potter returned in the evening, I wanted to give him money, but he refused.

"I'm not your landlord, just... _fuck off, Malfoy_ ," he bristled.

So I gave the sum to Kreacher. "You buy groceries anyway."

The elf had said nothing, but accepted.

"But... haven't you informed your Department of my whereabouts?" I ask. I was positive that he had, that he’d informed them first thing this morning.

"Not yet..." Potter doesn't look at me.

"Why?"

"This situation is so fucked up, actually..." He looks up. "I had _no idea_ how fucked up it was, until I’d visited your facility... So I thought... that probably it would be better to remove your bracelet first..."

I stare at him. He is breaking the Ministry rules trying to help me? "Why are you doing this, Potter?"

"I..." He shrugs. "I don't know, okay? When I set out to search for you, I thought... Well, I didn't think anything. But I saw you there, saw all that crazy shit going on... I couldn't fucking _believe_ such things were possible. I don't have a father, never had one, you know..." He exhales. "But I couldn't imagine that your own father.... that _parents_ were able to do such things to their children. What I witnessed there... _Fuck..._ " He shakes his head. "And for _what_?! For being gay?"

"Are you pitying me, Potter?"

"No... yes... I don't know, maybe. I think no one deserves that."

He folds and refolds a napkin in his fingers, and I look at him closely for the first time in ages. His glasses are square-framed, his heavy eyebrows are furrowed, and there's distinct stubble on his jaw. It's a strong face, manly and sharp, handsome; and his bright eyes... such a face is easily noticed and recognised. No wonder he chose the mousy Henry Ponder as his disguise.

"I never liked you, you know," he continues, which makes me laugh.

"Yes. _That_ I know, believe me."

"Yeah." He grins at me. " _That_ you do... I mean... when I saw you there, in the middle of all that... I don't even know how to call it... _No one_ deserves that, and neither do you. Having been there myself... what am I supposed to do? Throw you out of my house, knowing full well what would happen?"

I don't know what to say to that. There's the thought, nagging at the back of my mind, that if our positions were reversed, I would have probably done just that - thrown him out of my house, not thinking twice. Because it's Potter, and I hate him... or at least I'm supposed to, right?

"Thank you," I say.

He nods. "I think there _has to_ be a way to open your bracelet."

"There isn't." I shake my head. "It's a family magic. Only my Father can do it."

**

In the middle of the night, I am startled awake by my own scream.

Potter is standing in the doorway, silhouetted from behind by the corridor lamp.

"Malfoy?"

I sit up.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine."

I'm not fine, I'm shaking, and the dream's paralysing images are still vivid before my eyes. It was I - instead of Chris and Paul - in the circle, and my Father was beating the gay out of me with his cane in front of the cheering crowd.

"Come forward," he said.

And Theo came forward in his open bathrobe to hit me across the face.

"Are you sure?" Potter steps into the room.

"I'm _fine,"_ I say irritably.

"Okay," he says, stepping back. As soon as he closes the door, I instantly regret it. I mean, it was a really shitty nightmare, so much so that I'd be glad to have even _Potter_ in my room, rather than sit here alone in the dark. I switch the lamp on. No way will I be able to sleep now. I get out of bed.

A half an hour later, I am sipping scalding tea, sitting at the kitchen table. It's cold here, and I shiver, looking around, and notice a grey woollen sweater I saw on Potter at dinner. It's fucking freezing, and I'm only in the T-shirt and my pyjama bottoms…

 _Oh fuck it_...

I grab the thing from the back of the chair, hastily pulling it over my head to cover my bare arms. It's thick and warm and feels scruffy against my neck. It smells good, and reminds me of Potter, reminds me of safety. I bury my nose into the high collar and inhale. The faint smell of cologne or _something..._ and this warm Potterish _thing_ , that makes me think of his stubbled jaw and glasses, his broad hands, refolding the napkin... of something strong and confident, something that makes me want to let go and stop worrying and just _be_. It's ridiculous to even have these thoughts, but I realise I feel safe in Potter's presence. I just do, there's no help to that. I breathe in deeply with my eyes closed, savouring the warm scent of the wool and _Potter..._

"Can't sleep?"

I jerk, splashing hot tea from the mug on my - Potter's - sweater.

"Fuck, Potter..." I stand up, tugging at the front; it's damp, and I feel the T-shirt underneath is soaked through as well.

"Sorry," he says, sitting down across from me at the table, "nice sweater." He smirks.

"Er, I'm..." It's fucking humiliating. "I'll go change." I begin to pull it over my head.

"No, leave it," Potter says, when the damned thing is already stuck over my face, "no problem."

I jerk it down, feeling like an utter idiot. _Fuck._

Potter waves his hand at me, and my clothes and skin instantly go dry.

"Thanks," I mumble, not looking at him. I sit down again and take the mug.

"Is there any tea left?" He reaches for the teapot.

Still not looking at him, I nod. Fuck, this is fucking embarrassing.

"You are..." Potter stands up and heads to the cupboard. "Weird... I mean... you are like..."

The doors of the cupboard squeak, and then there's a crinkling sound and clatter of porcelain. I glance over my shoulder. Potter is on his tiptoes, rummaging at the top shelf. He could've done it with a wave of his hand, I think, so why bother? But probably he's doing it for something to do.

"This furniture is freaking tall," he exhales, putting down a bright box and a mug on the counter. Potter himself is around six feet, but the shelves and the cupboards hang really high around the kitchen.

"I'm like... what?" I ask.

"Not yourself." He puts the box on the table in front of me and sits down, reaching for a teapot.

"And you _know_ me?" I look at him.

"I knew _Malfoy_ a few years ago," he says, fiddling with the box, "and you are not him. I mean, you _are_ ... but not _quite._ " He gestures at the box, full of round chocolate biscuits.

I shrug. It's a hell of a lot to explain, and I'm not going to.

"You’re kind of... _not there."_

He's right. _Not there_ is how I mostly feel since Father had carted me off to ‘LOVE IN ACTION.’

"It's the bracelet, I suppose?" He asks, looking at my wrist.

"I think so." I reach for a biscuit.

It's the bracelet, for the most part. But not entirely. I think something has been broken in me during these last three months... And there was Theo, of course... I don’t want to think about it.

"Though, you know..." Potter bites into his biscuit. "From what I'd seen in that place... no wonder people go mental."

"Do I seem mental?" Maybe I do, who knows?

"No." He laughs. "But you’re so quiet... you don't retort my every word, which is mental in itself. I mean..." He waves his hand between us. "You know what I mean."

"Yeah." I know what he means. I don't only lack the energy to retort; Potter doesn't get to me like he used to in the first place. Definitely this thing on my wrist is fucking with my senses. "It's been like this since Father put it on me."

"How did you even end up there?" He asks. "It's Muggle and... I mean, why did your father decide to send you to a _Muggle_ place?"

"Wizards don't fix my condition,” he said.

" _Condition?_ " Potter asks. "It's not a _disease_ , it can't be _fixed_."

"I know." I shrug. "But Father doesn't think so. And I wish he were right. I wish it could be fixed."

Potter stares at me.

"What?" I bristle. "This thing - someone like me - can't exist in our world."

"Your world?"

"In families like mine."

Potter winces. "Why did you even tell him you're gay? Surely you knew he'd make your life a hell?"

"I didn't, are you insane?" Familiar annoyance rises in me. Seems like even the bracelet is not able to completely suppress my reaction to Potter. "I never planned for it to happen. Someone... figured it out and told my Father. And it's been a hell ever since."

"I'm sorry, Malfoy," Potter says, "no one deserves that. And... just so you know... there's nothing wrong with being gay, no matter what your father may think."

I stare at him. " _Nothing wrong?_ Are you kidding me? _Everything's_ wrong. Someone like me is bound to never have a normal life."

Potter looks at me oddly. "Do _I_ seem normal enough to you?" His voice is quiet, but there's something like challenge to it.

"You? Of course not." I roll my eyes.

"No, really?" He says.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm gay. Does my life and... stuff..." He waves his hand. "Seem normal enough to you?"

Wait... _what?_

"You're gay?"

He nods. “Pretty much.”

How is it even possible? How can he say such a thing so casually?

"You don't look gay."

"And how does gay look?" He laughs.

"They don't talk about it like that."

All the gays I've seen - and I met a lot of them in 'LOVE IN ACTION' - never talked about it like that. Simply, casually, as though it's not a big deal. Like Potter does.

"Like what?"

"Like that's not a problem."

"It's not a _problem!_ " He throws his hands in the air. "It's a problem only for prejudiced bigots like your father."

"You don't have a _father,_  Potter... You're not the one to talk."

"Oh _shut up, you!"_ He stands up. "Why would you be _such a..."_ He doesn't finish, grabbing his mug and heading to the sink.

 _Fuck._ I realise how that must have sounded.

"Sorry." I turn to him. "I didn't... what I mean, is that _you_ don't have to fulfil your father's expectations."

"You don't _have to_ fulfil them." He slams his mug down into the sink. His voice is calm, but a pissed-off calm. "You're your own person." He heads to the door. "Good night."

I look at his back. He's wrong. I'm my Father's son, and that's never going to change.

**

When I enter the kitchen in the morning, it's nine o'clock, and Potter has already left.

"Good morning, Master Malfoy," Kreacher says, turning to me from the stove. He is standing on a high wooden stool, clad in a black apron over his faded pillowcase. "Breakfast is been ready."

"Hi, Kreature." I sit down at the table.

Last night, after Potter had left, I went to bed, too. And though I didn't feel great after our chat, I fell asleep immediately. Now, finding Potter already gone, I am relieved. I don't think I'm okay with facing him right now. This whole thing of me depending on his charity is cringe-worthy, to say the least.

"Master will been return in the evening," Kreacher says, putting a coffee pot down in front of me, "Master say Master Malfoy ask Kreacher if he need anything."

"Thanks, Kreacher," I say. I'm not sure how I feel about Potter's hospitality.

For nothing better to do, I wander the house all day long, starting from the upper stories. It's huge, and I don’t manage to see it all yet, but what I see says that Potter doesn't give a fuck about this place. The house is awful: old and dingy. The interiors are preposterous, and, apparently, nothing's been changed in the past two centuries.

In the late afternoon, I finally reach the living room downstairs. It's dark and gloomy, though at least it's not as neglected as the majority of the house. There's a fire in the grate, a mug on the coffee table, and... there’s Potter's grey sweater, thrown over the back of the sofa. I left it on the chair in the kitchen last night. Something stirs in me, as I brush the soft fabric with my fingers, heading to the window.

There, covered in dust and cobwebs, is an old piano, tucked in the alcove.

I open the heavy curtains, letting the fading light from the window spill on the ancient instrument.

I had piano lessons as a child. Every pureblood does. It's something one has to learn, as well as ballroom dancing, my teacher used to say.

I open the lid and press several notes in simple succession, invoking the silly melody of an old children's song. The light flares at the edge of my vision, making me start.

The small lamp at the mantelpiece flickers on and off.

I press several keys again, and the light switches on. _Oh..._

I sit down on the stool and close my eyes. I haven't played for years, and I think I have probably forgotten everything, but as soon as my fingers touch the keys, my hands know what to do. The melody returns to me, alive and vivid, the airy notes of the old Wizard Waltz filling the room as my fingers grow confident. I realise I am grinning and swaying to the music with my eyes closed. When I open them, I know what I am going to find: every lantern and lamp in the room is glowing, all the candles in the ancient chandelier are alight.

This house only needs a bit of attention, I think, spilling the music from under my fingertips. The room is growing brighter, beaming at me, and I smile back. And when the final note fades out into silence, the lights don't switch off.

I look around and catch a glimpse of Potter, lurking in the doorway.

"Er... hi." He stuffs his hands in his pockets and steps into the room. "Sorry, I’m... interrupting you." He looks up at the chandelier and around the room.

"No, you are not," I say, closing the lid.

"You play well," he says, "I didn't know."

I shrug. Of course he didn't. He doesn't know me at all.

"Where did you learn?" He approaches.

"Traditional upbringing. Everyone plays, pretty much."

"Purebloods, you mean?"

I nod. It strikes me that Potter is not familiar with most Wizarding traditions.

"That ballroom dancing thing," he says, "in the facility... I had no idea you dance so well."

"How would you have known?" I stand up. I feel uncomfortable with this small talk.

When I head to the door, he follows.

"The house likes you, you know?" He says. "More than me."

"Why?"

"I think it's a pureblood thing about you... or maybe because you play the piano, I don't know." He laughs.

"Since you are neither, fair enough," I say.

**

It seems like Potter's right. It's been a week, and the house has taken to me. Ever since I began to play the piano in the mornings, the living room has been transforming. It looks brighter, it feels cosier, it's becoming a place where one wants to spend their evenings in front of the fire.

I prefer to play when Potter's not home. The thought of him listening to my music makes me shy and anxious and oddly vulnerable, as though my playing may let him into my thoughts.

"Master like Master Malfoy play," Kreacher says.

I am sitting at the piano, and he's polishing the lid with a soft cloth. Ever since I began to play, he's been keen on keeping the instrument clean.

"How do you know?" I open the lid.

"Kreacher know things."

"Did he tell you that?"

"Kreacher see things, Kreacher know. Master don't say, but Kreacher know. Master like his guest, and Master like his guest play piano."

I stare at him. No, the old elf is simply out of his mind, that's all.

"And house like Master Malfoy, house want Master Malfoy stay," he says, leaving the room.

In the evening, when Potter suddenly asks me to play, I don't refuse.

Feeling his gaze on me constantly, I'm anxious at first. But as the melody flows, my confidence takes hold. I look down at the keys, aware of him watching. I know the point when I begin to show off - that's when I realise that I want to impress him.

"That was..." he says, when I finish, turning to look at him.

He's sitting on the windowsill with his hands tucked under his thighs.

"What?" I ask. I'm dying to know what he thinks, but damn if I let him notice that.

" _Great_ ," he says, "I mean... I'm not an expert, like... _at all_. But it's beautiful. What's that?"

"It's my own piece, it doesn't have a name."

"What?! You mean..." Potter gapes. "You're telling me, that you just... composed it?"

"Sort of," I shrug.

"Malfoy, I'm..." He shakes his head. "Really..."

And now I know, I've impressed him.

**

"It arrived this morning." Potter drops an envelope on the table in front of me. "To my Ministry address. So... I opened it, since it said it was for me."

I take the envelope, retrieving a letter in Pansy's neat handwriting.

_‘Draco,_

_I'm sending this to Potter's office, since I don't have other means to reach either of you._

_First, I'm so SO glad that Potter has managed to drag you out of there. (I'm eternally grateful, Potter, and since, no doubt, you are reading this as well, let me thank you for hearing me out and saving Draco. I am terrified to imagine what future would have awaited him without you.)_

_Now, back to the matter at hand. I had a conversation with your father, Draco. He'd sent me an owl, asking to meet him in Diagon Alley. We had dinner and a chat. He suspects that your escape was organised by me and your mother (and he's not wrong, but I'm not going to tell him) and that we are currently hiding you somewhere._

_Of course, I denied everything, but I doubt he believed me. But what worries me the most is how it may affect your mother's safety._

_Your father can't do anything to ME, unless he wants to end up where he's just returned from. As to his possible actions towards your mother, I am not so sure. I haven't spoken or written to her yet, lest it only confirm his suspicions. But since your mother is under the same roof as him, I'm concerned for her safety._

_I may be mistaken, and I hope very much that I am. But, Potter, I think it would be wise to just check on her; better safe than sorry._

_I have no idea how long you are yet to spend where you are, Draco, and I won't write you there, unless absolutely necessary. But I am glad that you are safe, and I hope you are healing from that awful place._

_Love, Pansy.’_

Heart racing, I spring to my feet. "I must visit Mother." 

I haven't heard from her since that Floo call a week ago, when the connection had suddenly broken. I go cold. I hadn't paid it much thought then, but what if that meant that Father had caught her making that call? _Fuck._

"She's alright," Potter says, "I visited her right away this morning."

I sit down, my heart thudding heavily.

"Thank you, Potter."

He has no idea how I feel and I can't put it into words. He has no idea of the wave of gratitude that floods me, making me weak with relief, making me warm and exhausted, as the realisation that I trust him finally dawns. I can trust him, completely. And I do.

"Your father wasn't home. She assured me she's fine. She said he'd been asking questions, but otherwise hasn't attempted to harm her in any way. But I'm still not sure she's safe in the Manor."

"Fuck." I run my palm over my face.

"Does she have anywhere to go?" Potter asks. "I mean... she may stay here with you, if things get tough."

I stare at him. He offers his protection to my Mother - just like that - he offers his house without a second thought.

I know I'm lost forever. From now on, I am not able to un-trust him. It's like falling in love, but deeper - more secure and safe. Something that's not easily undone, not with him.

It’s a revelation.

Have you ever _fallen in trust?_

"Malfoy?" He frowns. I realise I'm gaping at him.

"She does," I finally find my voice, "she owns some property in London that's not connected to my Father in any way. But she won't leave the Manor."

"Why??"

I shake my head. "You don't know her... she's... she's so stubborn. She'll try to deal with Father, no matter what. She didn’t leave when the fucking Dark Lord himself lived in her house. Do you think she's afraid of my Father? Though she probably should be..."

She probably should be. She shouldn't be so careless. She never thinks he is able to harm her. And that's where she's mistaken. She cares for her family. But Father cares for _The Family._ And these two things may mean quite the opposite at times.

What do I care for? Mainly, I want to be safe. And I love my Mother. She is risking her own safety for me. Am I able to do the same for her?

"I must speak to my Father." I stand up. "Enough of this shit."

"What?" Potter springs to his feet.

"I shouldn't just sit here, waiting it out, until my Mother gets hurt because I'm a coward."

"But... I don't know... maybe you're right," Potter says, "but would it help her if Lucius just shut you up again where she wouldn't be able to find you? I think that's what he will do this time, as soon as you set your foot outside. Without magic you can do nothing against him. You may end up in some mental facility abroad."

He's right, of course. I'm trapped, and either way it's only going to get worse.

"But I can't live in your house like this forever!" I point at my wrist.

"Look..." Potter is pacing the kitchen. "Okay, I think... a meeting with your father may be arranged. But you'll have to speak to him in my presence. So that he won't be able to do anything. He wouldn't want to have an Auror for a witness." He turns to me. "Would that be okay?"

"Yes."

I have no idea why he's helping. It's Potter. Saving the day is his job, I suppose.

**

"Kreacher bring what Master Malfoy ask," the elf says, putting the set of charcoal crayons and a stack of paper on the table.

"Thank you, Kreacher."

I've had this idea for some time.

The attic and the upper floor may serve as a perfect roof garden. There's no need for _that_ many rooms anyway.

The first floor is just fine, it only needs refreshing and such.

I have some ideas as to the library and the living room, but they are just minor changes. The kitchen in the basement is okay, and is actually the most inhabited place in the house, except for Potter's bedroom, I suppose, though I haven't seen it.

Potter's bedroom is right next to mine, and we share the bathroom, but I haven't been there. Of course I haven't, there's absolutely no reason to.

I mean, I can take a peek once he isn't home... and I'm curious, I must admit. But I won't. I think if I visited his room in his absence, Potter would know instantly. I don't know how, but I have a feeling that he would.

Gathering the supplies, I head upstairs. I want to have at least something finished before he returns.

**

"I've been thinking..." I tell him in the evening when Kreacher pours us soup. "I mean... it's just a... like, a _thought..._ nothing... I mean... purely an _idea._.. you don't have to... or anything..."

Potter frowns.

 _Fuck,_ what's the matter with me? I'm stammering. I'm suddenly uncertain. It felt brilliant when I'd been doing it this morning  sitting in the attic on my own. Now, it seems far-fetched and stupid and...

"What?"

"It's just..." I stand up. "Give me a sec."

I run to the living room, where the folder with my drawings lies on the coffee table.

"Here." I give it to Potter. I don't know... Okay... If he laughs, then he laughs.

With his brow furrowed, he leafs through the sheets slowly for a long time, and I hold my breath, leaning against the counter, until he looks up.

"This is... this is _Grimmauld?_ " He asks, wide-eyed.

I nod.

"Did you... is it yours?" He asks, tracing the drawing of the rooftop garden with his fingers.

"Yeah... Umm..." I scratch my nose. "You see... I've had this idea. This place is awful..."

The kitchen furniture creaks in indignation.

"No, I mean... it's _lovely_ but... it’s in the awful state..." I say, cautiously glancing at the cupboard. I don't want to fuck with the house, do I?

" _Lovely?!"_ Potter laughs, incredulous. "No, it's pretty much awful. Go on..."

The cupboard door bangs open.

"You shouldn't offend the house, Potter." I glare at him. "No wonder you say it doesn't like you."

The cupboard snaps shut.

"Offend the _house?"_

"Yes, that's what you're doing with your remarks. _I apologise, okay?!"_ I raise my voice, looking up at the ceiling, "I shouldn't have said that, _it's not true!"_

"Are you talking to the _house_ now?" Potter looks at me as though I'm crazy. "You okay, Malfoy?" He waves at me.

"Yes, I'm talking to the _house._ In case you hadn't noticed, it's an ancient _magical_ house. You’ve lived here, Potter, for how long?"

"Four years."

" _Four years,_ and you have no idea that your house is pretty much sentient? You might have not known, initially, but... didn't Kreacher tell you?"

"Er..." Potter scratches his head. "He _did,_ but..."

"But what? I bet you took it as his crazy rumblings." I roll my eyes.

"Well..." Potter shrugs.

"But you told me once that you think your house likes me better."

"It was a joke!"

"Great. No wonder your own house hates you. You don't take it seriously."

"Does it _hate_ me?!" Potter asks, alarmed.

"No... I don't think it does. But it's obviously pissed off with you and offended."

"What should I do? _Listen, I'm sorry!"_ He says loudly to the ceiling. " _I didn't mean to!_ It's just... I don't know you..."

One of the cupboards opens and closes quietly.

"Well, that's a start," I say.

"So..." He looks down at the drawings. "You want to make some changes?"

"I don't, I... It's _your_ house, Potter. I'm not in the position to... What I'm trying to say, is: I've just had an idea of little improvements - structural and aesthetic ones - which may..." I stop, trying to find the way to put it so that the house won't go bonkers again.

"That may bring out the beauty of this place, and help it get rid of the old stuff that no longer serves it right." I glare at Potter, lest he blurt something stupid again.

He nods, and nods again, looking down at the folder.

"These are nice," he says, "ideas, I mean... I'd love to bring them to life one day."

He looks up. "You draw very well, I like it... thank you for... taking your time."

"I can't do magic, but at least I can do _this_ ," I nod at the folder, feeling oddly warm in the face. His praise makes me feel weird. Good and weird at the same time.

"This is magic," he says, "t _his_. I am talentless at such things, so... it's more magical to me than the actual magic is."

Fascination in his voice makes me want to hear it again.

**

_‘Father,_

_Meet me at 7 p.m. tomorrow in the "Golden Snitch", Diagon Alley._

_Draco.’_

Father most certainly will be appalled. No intricate phrasing, no _'Dear'_ and _'Sincerely'_ and stuff. To hell with it. We both know that the time for the formal pleasantries has passed.

I put the letter into the envelope, handing it to Potter. He will send it via the Ministry post. He'd suggested it would be better to deal with my Father in the middle of a public place. He's right. It will be much easier this way.

I'm in a panic all the same. I almost want to snatch the letter out of his hand and change _‘tomorrow’_ to _‘today’_ to get it over with sooner. Or to not send it at all; or to send it in a year. I don't know. Anything to calm the fuck down a bit.

"Right," Potter says, stuffing the letter in his pocket.

"Thanks, Potter," I say, nowhere near as calm as I try to appear.

As he disappears through the Floo, I stand there, motionless, staring into the flames.

A sound from the alcove makes me turn. I see the lid of the piano opens slowly to rest against the side of the instrument.

"Okay," I sigh, heading over to sit down on the stool. "Fine... _If you say so..."_

I touch the keys, feeling, rather than hearing, the living room around me exhale.

" _Oh, come on,"_ I mock, running my fingers over the keys, "no need to be dramatic. It's not like it's you who's going to meet my Father." But the thought that the house cares, trying to comfort me, makes me feel better.

**

"He may not come at all," I say for the hundredth time, walking beside Potter along the street, "you know my Father."

As soon as we emerged from the Leaky and stepped on the Diagon Alley, the staring began. I hadn't thought of it before... but come on... it's Potter and I, walking side by side together. What did I expect?

We are passing Madame Malkin's as a flash of light hits me in the face, then another one.

"Mr. Potter!" A man shouts. "A few words on the case of the Malfoy Heir!"

"Malfoy! _Draco Malfoy!_ Turn to the camera! Your comments on your rescue?!"

My heart racing, I cover my face. I've been so focused on my Father, on our meeting and what he may say, that I haven't thought about this at all. About how it would be, once we set foot in Diagon Alley.

 _"Fuuuck!"_ Potter shoves the reporter aside and grabs my arm, pulling me along.

'Golden Snitch' is only several feet away. He wrenches at the handle angrily, slamming the door behind us.

Every head turns in our direction. There are a lot of people here, but I see my Father immediately. Dressed to the nines in the formal robes, he is sitting at a table by the window. Straight as a rod, one hand resting on his cane. His grey hair, grown long in these months after his return, tied back with a ribbon.

In my Muggle suit, I stand out here. Pretty much everyone is in robes, except for Potter in his Auror uniform jacket and trousers.

Potter drops my arm. We walk towards my Father to the murmur of voices around us.

"Trust you to make a _scene,_  Draco," he says as we approach. " _Auror Potter_. What a pleasant surprise." His voice drips with acid.

Potter says nothing. He takes the chair facing the window to my Father's left, leaving me the seat across from Father, as though putting himself as a barrier between us. I am grateful.

I sit down, willing myself not to fidget under Father's gaze.

"What a _ridiculous_ attire, Draco," he says, "if the aim of this meeting is to humiliate me, you have already succeeded."

"As far as I remember, Father, recently you've been very much content with the way Muggles handle certain things," I reply, astonished that my voice doesn't waver.

"Speaking of Muggles," he says, "you need to return to therapy. And though your Mother is opposed to the idea, I absolutely _insist."_

"I'm not going back."

"What do you want, Draco?" Father snaps. "Why have you invited me here?"

"I wanted to let you know, that Mother has nothing to do either with my escape, or my whereabouts."

Father glances briefly at Potter, who sits with his arms crossed, staring out of the window. His presence is steadying, and at the same time a bit unsettling. I am trying so hard not to appear a sissy in front of him.

"And I want you to take this off." I lift my right wrist.

"There are two ways of taking it off, Draco," Father says, "either after you are completely cured, _or..."_ He sighs and looks out of the window, then back at me, then at his hand, gripping the cane.

"You see," he continues, "you are undoubtedly aware, that the Manor and our entire family fortune were meant to be yours one day. But considering your current refusal to fix your unfortunate condition that dishonours the Malfoy name... _Now I have to ask myself..._ whether I am ready to lose you."

Potter turns to stare at him. He's been sitting motionless all this time, giving the impression that he isn't listening. Now, by his rigid posture, I realise that he is poised to lash out any second.

"I am gay," I say, and Father winces, "and I am your son. And neither of those things is going to change."¹

"You are mistaken." Father looks me in the eyes. His gaze is impossibly bright, icy-blue. Even Azkaban hadn't managed to fade its vivid colour. "Both of those things can be changed.  By refusing to deal with the former, you leave me no choice, Draco. I am ready to do what has to be done. Are you sure you are ready to deal with the consequences?"

Lost for words, I stare at him. Never in my life did I imagine that it may come to _this._

"Think about it, _Son_. Until eight o’clock tomorrow morning, I will await your reply." Father stands up. "It has been a pleasure, _Auror Potter_." He bows and heads to the exit.

**

_Ever I roam_

_Ever I roam_

_Further from home_

_Your hand I know,_

_Now..._

_\--Troye Sivan & Jónsi, ‘Revelation’, OST for the film ‘Boy Erased'--_

Next morning at breakfast I try to think about anything but our meeting with Father and what time is it.

I glance at the clock on the wall: a quarter to eight. I have no idea what may happen, or may not. Would I even be able to feel it? To feel _what?_

"What do you think will happen?" Potter asks.

"I don't know... it’s never happened to me before," I reply, staring into my cup.

 _‘There are two ways of removing it,’_ he said.

I look at my wrist. One of them, the solution he wants me to agree to, I rejected.

"Eight," Potter says, and I look up at the clock. I stare and stare at it, but nothing happens.

"Probably he's changed his mind?" Potter says.

"Maybe," I say, not taking my eyes off the clock. Though I know perfectly well that he hasn't. I know my Father.

When the minute hand moves to mark one minute past eight, I jerk with a cry. Because the bracelet on my wrist suddenly grows stinging hot... A crack appears right through the centre of the capital M, splitting the letter in two... The band snaps in halves, falling off my wrist on the table. The skin underneath is angry-red.

Instantly, I feel a rush of magic flooding me, filling my whole being to the brim, so much that I might burst. It's flowing through my blood with every heartbeat, pulsing in my fingertips, overwhelming all my senses, making me lightheaded; making me realise how empty, how _dead_ I have been all this time without it.

The world around me snaps into focus, making my perception vivid and sharp. Bewildered, I feel every brush of air against my skin, colours around me suddenly brighten. Something is clearing in my head, as though a veil that has been dulling all my senses is being pulled off, making me alive again.

In shock, I stare around, my breath coming out harsh.

"Draco?"

The sound of my name startles us both. I turn. Potter and I gape at each other. By the look on his face, he is even more shocked than I am with him using my given name.

"What?" I utter, feeling hot in the face.

"I didn't mean to..." He stares at me. "I was going to say... _Draco!_ " Potter yelps. "Fuck!.. What the?.."

I look down at the two halves of the bracelet on the table, and realisation finally dawns.

"He has disowned me," I say dumbly, words alien in my mouth, "my Father." I look up at Potter. "I am no longer his son. That's why you aren't able to address me by that name. I'm no longer Malfoy."

This is why the bracelet has broken, freeing me of his will. The Malfoy family magic no longer has power over me. And I no longer have a family.

Tears rush up so swiftly that I barely manage to cover my face before my eyes start stinging. I bite into my lip to stifle a sob. It doesn't help.

_Fuck._

"Sorry." I stand up. "I need to..."

I dash out of the kitchen, into the hall, and up, up the stairs to my room.

Although I expected something like this, because it's exactly what my Father would do... I somehow didn't expect _THIS._ Only a half an hour ago, I had a _Family_. However it might have been, however fucked up and weird… It still was a family and now I have nothing. I have been  cut off and thrown away, like some diseased branch on the family tree; erased from the Family Book and history.

Face down, I fall onto the bed, the shock of it all crushing me. Pressing my face into the pillow, I shake.

I don't know for how long I lie like this.

When Kreacher says "Master Draco" above me, I start.

"Kreacher is been sorry, that Master Draco is unhappy."

I turn to look at him. He stands by the bed, fiddling with the hem of his faded pillowcase. His ears droop, giving him an even more sad and ancient look than he usually has.

"It's alright, Kreacher." I sit up, wiping my eyes. "Sorry, I..." I shake my head. "What time is it?"

"Master is been long time leave to Ministry, it is the ten and the twenty o'clock."

I exhale. "I need to wash my face."

"Kreacher is been makes tea to cheering Master Draco."

"Thank you, Kreacher." I stand up. "I'll be downstairs in a minute."

**

_'MALFOY HEIR: FOUND ONLY TO BE LOST FOR GOOD. Lucius Malfoy disowns his only son.'_

The headline catches my eye. I take the Prophet from the kitchen table.

"Prophet is been arrive, as always. Kreacher is must taking it away. Kreacher is been sorry Master Draco read it."

The elf tries to snatch the newspaper out of my hand.

"It's fine, Kreacher." I raise the paper out of his reach.

Mumbling under his breath, Kreacher goes to the counter, and I sit at the table, unfolding the newspaper.

_‘Lucius Malfoy (48), the convicted Death Eater, freshly out of Azkaban, and the present head of the Malfoy family, has disowned his only son and heir, Draco Malfoy (22). Lucius was interviewed this morning at the door of the Gringotts Bank in Diagon Alley._

_“Yes, the rumours are true,” he confirmed to our reporter._

_The man looked devastated indeed, refusing to make any further official statement as to the reasons for such a shocking decision. The Prophet is yet to speak to his wife Narcissa Black Malfoy (47). As to their son, Draco, who no longer retains the Malfoy family name, his whereabouts at the moment are unknown._

_According to reliable sources, the last time Draco was spotted was yesterday in Diagon Alley, he was in the company of no other than Harry Potter himself!_

_(Harry James Potter (22), the Saviour of the Wizarding world, defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort four years ago. Now he is an aspiring Auror of the Ministry of Magic. Mr. Potter currently resides in London, in the ancestral home of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, which he inherited from his deceased godfather Sirius Black. The whereabouts of the residence remain unknown.)_

_Harry Potter and Draco at-a-time-Malfoy were spotted entering the restaurant ‘Golden Snitch’, where they supposedly had dinner with Lucius Malfoy._

_Make of this whatever you want, dear Reader. Meanwhile, keep in touch with our latest news!’_

I hurl the paper on the table, vanishing it with a wave of my hand. That's when I remember that I don't have a wand. Father had taken it away from me the evening he'd put his bracelet on my wrist.

**

It is dark outside. I'm playing the piano, and tears are running down my face. The melody is coming out sad and helpless, and I feel the house sigh around me.

The living room is lit up with the soft glow of the candles in the air. It reminds me of Hogwarts and my childhood, it reminds me of the Manor, of the happy memories I had there. Yes, there were also the terrible ones; but those earlier flashes of happiness are undoubtedly there as well, and they cannot be taken away, no matter that my Father thinks I no longer have the right to have them.

I stop playing, looking around the living room. It is trying with all its might to appear cosy and warm, and even beautiful, in its own way. It has only taken two short weeks for me to love this place. I stare into the fire in the grate for a long time.

This is when I think that I am free to go. Free to leave whenever I want, with my magic intact, and my Father not sparing me a second thought. This is when I realise that I don't have anywhere to go, and furthermore - I don't want to leave this place.

I go to bed early. I don't want to face Potter just yet.

**

"Amortentia." He smirks, looming over me. "Now, don’t worry… you want it, too." He slides his hand into my hair.

"No." I try to shake his hand off.

"Come on, _Draco..."_ He presses his knee into my stomach, trapping me against the back of the sofa.

His bathrobe is parted, revealing his navel and the dark trail of hair, going down.

"No." I squeeze my eyes, trying to shove him away.

He is not stronger than I. All I have to do is push him harder, throw him off and grab my wand from the coffee table to cast _Crucio_ with all my might.

Why I am not able to do it? Why is the fear paralysing me, as he forces my face down to his groin?

I scream at the top of my lungs, jerking awake.

My heart is racing; it is dark in the room. I am terrified to move in my bed. Because I know _he's here._ He's in the room, and I feel his presence.

Slowly, I turn my head to peer over my shoulder. The figure in the bathrobe is looming mere feet away.

What happens next, I don't quite remember. I come to my senses into the bright light of the room, holding _him_ at the wand-point; my bed is a barrier between us. He's in the white bathrobe, but it's secured at the waist with a belt. He is blinking at me, bewildered. His hair, wet from the shower, is combed back. It's only Potter. I lower my wand.

It’s not a wand... I don’t have a wand... My hand is gripping the bedside lamp.

I am shaking.

"Draco?”

I put the lamp down on the bedside table and turn away, sitting down on the bed with my back to him.

"Turn off the lights." My voice cracks. I wipe the wetness in the corner of my eye. I don't want him to see my face.

The room goes dark. I hear him approaching. He's barefoot, I think vaguely.

"Nightmares?" The other side of the bed deeps beneath his weight.

"Yes."

"I have them, too. Sometimes."

I nod. Whatever horrors he may see, I'm sure, their nature differs from mine.

"I'd heard you from the shower. Your screams. I just... wanted to wake you up."

I am about to say thank you, but a sudden touch of his hand at my back renders me unable to utter a word. It is heavy and warm; it slides up to wrap around my shoulder, his thumb stroking my collarbone.

My heart stops.

Everything stops.

I distantly realise that it's probably not what it seems; that it's _Potter,_ and he means no harm... But my body reacts on its own accord: I shove him away and spring on my feet, whirling around with a cry.

_"Don't touch me!"_

I cannot make out his face, but I see him standing by the other side of the bed. He raises his palms.

"I'm sorry... I didn't mean to..." His voice is bewildered. "Whatever you might have thought, it wasn't... _that._ "

"I know." My voice is shaking.

 _Fuck_.

I know he meant nothing like that, nothing like that _thing_ that paralyses me with fear. He probably wanted to comfort me, to hug me, or something. I feel sick all the same. I cannot help it.

"Do you want me to leave?" He asks.

I don't want him to leave, I'm afraid to be alone. But I don't want him to come close either.

"No... you may sit down, but... would you just... remain where you are?"

"Okay," he says warily, gingerly sitting down at the foot of the bed, his silhouette outlined against the greying window.

I sit down, too, on my side of the bed, propping myself against the headboard.

Only now it suddenly strikes me that he'd never approached me too close before, or attempted to touch me in any way, and that I was okay with it. I hadn't forgotten his words that night in the kitchen, no... But I somehow _forgot_ he's gay, because all this time he never acted on it. Always neutral, always keeping his distance. I've been taking it for granted. We never talked about the gay thing, never addressed it in any way again. And I was good. I was fine. Until he touched me, throwing me back into the horror of the Theo-nightmare.

He most certainly hadn’t meant any of that, but I feel sick all the same and can't shake it off. I don't think I'll ever be able to let another man touch me. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to not recoil. This is why everything's wrong about being gay for me. That's what he doesn't understand.

I’m not going to explain.

He clears his throat. "Your Mother contacted me today. She says she wants to meet you tomorrow. In a Muggle place. She's given me an address."

"Okay." I lie down, tugging the blanket over my head. "Would you just..."

"What?"

"Sit here for a while?"

"Okay," he says.

"Sit where you are," I add.

"Okay."

He sits in silence, until I fall asleep.

**

"Draco, dear..." She squeezes my hand over the table. There's such pity written over her face. My Mother knows too well what Family means.

We are sitting by the window of the cosy Muggle tea-shop, and the rain is pouring outside.

"I don't want to talk about it," I say, "how are you?"

She doesn't reply for a while, absorbed in the movements of her teaspoon in the cup. Then: "I left your Father."

I stare at her. This is something surreal, something that never happens to _us_. To a family like ours.

"After what happened, I find it impossible to be near him. I am so sorry, Draco. I failed you. Again."

That _'again'_ stings. It feels like a bitter aftertaste of everything that has passed between us in the last several years.

"No, you didn’t. You saved me. Again," I say, and I mean it. If not for her, I wouldn't be alive then, or free now.

"If you hadn't told Potter my whereabouts..."

"It was the least I could do to right the wrongs I caused you, going along with your Father's will - again..." She looks away.

"Where are you staying?" I ask.

"My Kensington flat. You are always welcome there, my dear. And here... I’ve brought you this.”

She puts a wand on the table. I recognise it, it’s her old wand that I’d been using after the war before purchasing a new one after my house arrest.

"Thank you," I say, "yes, actually... now I should leave Potter's house..." And the words are suddenly heavy in my throat. I'm not sure whether it's because of the house or its Master. I'd better not think about it.

"Please, do give my eternal gratitude to Mr. Potter. I don't know how I can thank him enough."

"I will."

I myself won’t ever be able to repay him. Though it's not like he's going to settle the debt.

"And do remember, Draco, no matter what, no matter what your Father has done... You will always remain a Black. _This_ cannot be ever taken from you. You may rightfully use the Black name as your own from now on."

She touches the inside of my wrist with her fingertips lightly, just above the place where Father's band had left its mark, and I feel a faint thrum of her magic flowing beneath my skin, mingling with my very blood.

**

_It's a rocky road_

_To say:_

_"Maybe I won't go"_

_Hey dear,_

_You're a wrecking ball_

_You’re here,_

_Crushing all I'm told_

_\--Troye Sivan & Jónsi, ‘Revelation’, OST for the film ‘Boy Erased’-- _

Approaching Grimmauld Place slowly, I cannot see Number 12 from the street. It's concealed from prying eyes with a Fidelius Charm and other heavy warding spells for good measure. He'd cast them himself, and they are holding better than the Ministry wards, Potter had told me this morning, handing me a piece of paper.

I stared dumbly at the words, written in his careless scrawl, and couldn't believe my own eyes.

_'Number 12, Grimmauld Place.'_

I know perfectly well how Fidelius works.

By revealing his address to me, he had included me into the charm, enabling me to find the house on my own from the outside.

"You can come and go freely," he said, "you may go meet your mother and then come back, not waiting for me to pick you up."

And I couldn't believe it...

But here it is: the piece of paper in my hand. The piece of Potter's trust.

"Number 12, Grimmauld Place." I read silently and watch how the walls of the numbers 11 and 13 slide aside, revealing the porch and the windows... and Kreacher, standing by the front door.

The elf bows as I approach. " _Master Black,_  welcome home."

"What?" I climb the steps.

"The Most Noble and Ancient House of Black and Kreacher is happy to welcome _Master Black._ " He throws the door wide with a bow.

"How do you know?" I mean, really... Not even an hour has passed since the meeting with my Mother.

"Kreacher know things," the elf says smugly, following me inside, "the house know things."

As soon as I step into the hall, all the lights flare on, and I see the shine of the dark wooden floors. The banisters of the staircase are polished.

"Wow!" I stop in my tracks.

"House love Master Black, house beautiful for Master Black." Kreacher croaks next to me, bouncing with excitement.

"Yes. It's beautiful," I say, "thank you."

I don't want to leave this place, but I have to. I have no business imposing on Potter's hospitality any longer.

**

"Hi." I look up at Potter from the stack of drawings on my lap. I've finished them, planning to hand them to Potter upon my departure.

This is the news I have yet to break to him: I'm leaving tomorrow. I've been waiting by the Floo in the living room for his return.

"Hi," he says, walking past me to the door, and there's _something_ in his voice.

I look in his wake. Usually, he'd stop to take a look at what I'm doing, or ask me something, or say "Come on," gesturing towards the kitchen. Usually, he gladly talks to me. Not today.

Probably a shitty day at work, I think. I stand up, following him to the kitchen. I feel uneasy.

We are having dinner in silence, and Potter is frowning, avoiding my eyes.

"Is Master Black want more soup?"

"Is Master Black enjoy his casserole?"

"Is Master Black want wafers for breakfast?"

Kreacher is having a fit.

I only manage to reply: "Yes, thank you, yes, thank you, yes, thank you," under Potter's heavy stare.

"Mother has included me into the Black family magic," I shrug, "so I'm a Black from now on."

Potter looks away, his face stony. What's the matter with him?

"She left my Father. She's staying in London," I continue. Potter is nodding to his plate.

"Actually... I've been meaning to tell you... I mean... I wanted to thank you, Potter..."

His head snaps up.

"For your help and hospitality... but I think I should no longer impose on it. So... I'm leaving tomorrow morning."

"No, you are _FUCKING NOT."_ Potter's tone feels like a slap across my face. He stands up.

"This morning," he says, glaring at me, "the case was filed. The case ended up on Ron's desk, that’s how I know. Theodore Nott's case. Does that ring a bell, _Draco?_ "

I go cold. "What?"

"Theodore Nott is charging you with attempted rape and the use of an Unforgivable."

I shake my head. No... not that... _not that again_. I'd thought I'd paid enough for that in ‘LOVE IN ACTION.'

"So you are absolutely _not_ going anywhere." Potter takes his glasses off, beginning to wipe them with a napkin. "Now, I _have to_ take you into custody." Shaking his head, he puts his glasses on and walks out of the kitchen.

I sit, staring dumbly into space, I don't know for how long. This is happening again, and now I'm going to end up in Azkaban for the thing I hadn't committed; for the thing that had been done to _me_ , tearing my world in two, turning my life into _'before'_ and _'after.'_ The thing that had destroyed me, making impossible any closeness with another person. What was the point of all that, I think, of refusing the therapy, of letting my Father disown me? And for what?!

After what Theo did to me, it doesn't matter that I'm gay, it doesn't mean anything. Because it’s _nothing._ I am _nothing._ Because I'll never be able to let another man come close to me. Why couldn't I just pretend, go along with Father's game? At least I would still have remained a Malfoy.

I wipe my eyes angrily and stand up.

"Potter!" I stride into the hall.

"Potter!" I shout up the staircase.

He appears in the doorway of the living room.

"It's a lie!"

Saying nothing, he turns, walking back into the room.

"It's not true!" I follow him. “He made it up!"

"I've seen his memories," he says with his back to me, "he attached them to the case as evidence. You used Cruciatus on him, repeatedly, so spare me this _bullshit!"_ He shouts, turning to me. His face is livid.

"I can't fucking _believe_ it! You make me _sick...”_ He shakes his head. “All this time I..." He doesn’t finish, brushing past me to the door.

I am trapped. I can't do this.

I will never let anyone see _this_.

_… You make me sick…_

_… You make me sick…_

I have no choice.

I grab his sleeve. "Do you have a Pensieve?"

He turns, face stony, shrugging my hand off. "No."

He is staring at me, his pupils blown wide. He'll probably kill me. There's no other way to do it; no other way to make him _see._

 _'Legilimens,'_ I think, falling into the void of his bewildered eyes.

His mind wrenches wild around me, discarded shreds of thoughts scattering everywhere. I see a glimpse of Weasley's face and the Ministry Atrium. I block everything out; I am not here to pry. He wrenches again, but my grip is firm. _Yet._ I know, I barely have any time left. I am skilled in this, but Potter is powerful; unless I am swift enough, he'll wreck my mind beyond repair.

 _"Wait!"_ I say loudly inside his head.  _"Stay still. I'm going to show you. Just watch."_

Reaching to the very bottom of the deepest depth, I retrieve the memory... the _thing_ that I'd been keeping hidden beneath layers and layers of my self-preservation. The _thing_ that visits me only in my nightmares against my will. The _thing_ that I'd thought I would never let anyone see. Never.

 _"Look."_ I throw it at him.

_"...Make yourself at home... I'll be in a minute..." Theo's living room and his smiling face._

My heart gives a thud.

_"... What's this?..." I raise the glass, peering at the light through a golden-brown liquid._

_"... Just you taste, and find out..." Theo's charming laughter._

_... The smell... I close my eyes... the realisation... Amortentia... I put the glass down... Theo is standing in the doorway in his white bathrobe, open in the middle._

Potter's mind is still around me. My hands begin to tremble.

_... Theo is approaching, leering smile on his face... He shrugs his bathrobe off... His hand is sliding into my hair...._

I am shaking. I don't want to see it; I don't want to watch what happens next. I have to. Potter is living it through my eyes, there's no other way to show him.

_... Theo is forcing my face down, and now his hard cock is right in front of me... "Come on, Draco," he says, pushing between my lips..._

And this is what I could never remember; I am reliving it all now. I can't breathe.

_... He grips the handfuls of my hair, holding my head in place, thrusting in my mouth, making me choke and gag and vomit around his dick hitting my throat..._

I think I'm crying, or it's probably Potter, I don't know...

_... Magic bursts from my fingertips, sending Theo on the floor. Shaking, I spring on my feet, grabbing my wand from the coffee table. "CRUCIO!"_

_... Theo's screams are filling the room, his body wreathing in agony under my spell. They are only spurring me on._

_"... CRUCIO!.." My hand doesn't waver..._

_"You have to MEAN IT, boy,"_ Aunt Bella used to say. This is when I'd finally grasped the meaning of her words.

_"...CRUCIO!.."_

_... I am casting and casting, I am never going to stop; and there's no mercy in me for the suffering of this human being..._

_...When I finally lower my wand, he doesn't stir..._

_... Apparating into my bedroom, I vomit right onto the rug by the bed..._

Something snaps in my head, and I stumble back, finding myself staring at Potter.

Tears are running down my face, I am shaking. I am cold. I will never be warm again.

His face horrified, he reaches out. With a cry, I jump back, catching myself against the sofa, and crumble down to the floor. Potter is staring at me in horror. I can’t stand it, can’t let him look, can’t let him see me. I turn away, pressing my face into the sofa seat. I can’t breath, I can’t anything... a howl tears my throat.

Arms lock around my shoulders from behind, squeezing me tight. I try to wrench free, but he is strong.

A hand is in my hair. Stroking my temple, he tucks my head under his chin.

"I've got you..." Pressing me into his chest, he rocks me back and forth.

"You're safe." His voice is in my ear. "I've got you. Now cry."

And I cry.

I cry, howling my horrors into the void.

And I weep silently, digging my fingers into his arm around my chest, soaking his sleeve with my tears.

And I scream again, scream myself hoarse, shaking all over.

And I lie in his arms, boneless, not bothering to wipe my face.

It seems that time has stopped, and we are suspended in the moment forever. He is my anchor, and I am floating, and the flood will never end.

All this time he holds me tight, never letting go, and only raises his hand briefly to wipe his eyes.

I am letting out everything I’d been determined to hide for the rest of my life.

Until I’m spent. And numb.

And safe.

I don't see his face, and I am afraid to look; I don't know what I may find there. He is cradling me against his chest, his steady heartbeat under my ear, and the only thing I know, is that _I am safe._

**

I wake up to the bright morning light and the sound of the shower running.

Last night after my breakdown, Potter made me go to bed, saying that we'd most definitely talk about it in the morning.

"Should I er..." He asked, standing awkwardly in the doorway. "Maybe I'll sit for a while with you? Do you mind?"

"If you want," I said.

Although he probably already knew how badly I needed not to be alone, I couldn't bring myself to voice it.

"Alright," he said, sitting down in the armchair, as I climbed into bed.

Exhausted, I fell asleep immediately. I don't know when he left.

I don’t know how he felt. I don’t know what toll it may have taken on him.

"Draco, look..." Potter says at breakfast.

And I look, though it's probably not what he means. He called me Draco. "No, I don't think I could call you Black; it’s crazy," he said.

I look. I am looking. At his tired face, at his eyes behind the glasses that speak of the lack of sleep. He is clean-shaven, and his wet hair is combed back, revealing the _Scar_ above his right eyebrow. He looks very pale in the face and gaunt, skin stretched tight over the sharp features. And I realise, that although he is the strong one - last night might have taken its toll on him, too.

I feel lightheaded. The wildest thing had happened, and I don't know how to deal with it. Lying in his arms, exhausted from crying, I realised that it was the only place I'd ever felt safe for a long time. It cannot be undone. I don't know how he feels about it. But I know now, I would follow him anywhere. If he asked me to.

"You should file a counterclaim," he says.

_Counterclaim._

I feel sick. I can't imagine all _this_ to be dragged out there and made public.

Do I have a choice?

"I'm sorry, but... there's no other way. I'll talk to Hermione."

"Granger?" My question is dumb. How many 'Hermiones' does Potter have to turn to?

"She's a barrister."

"I don't think she’ll agree to help _me,"_  I say.

"She will, after she sees your memories."

I stare into my cup. How many times will I have to relive it again and again?

"You will have to submit your memories, as evidence," he says, "just once. Once."

I nod. I don't know how I am to survive what is to come.

**

_"DRACO (FORMERLY MALFOY) BLACK IS CHARGED WITH RAPE."_

_"BLACK AGAINST NOTT: COUNTERCLAIM."_

The headlines make me ill, staring at me from everywhere, as I attend the Wizengamot with Granger. Hearing after hearing. Day after day.

She is all no-nonsense and treats me politely, though there _is_ a barrier, and each of us keeps to their own side.

She and Weasley visited Grimmauld the evening after my breakdown and shut themselves in the library with Potter. They'd brought a Pensieve. I went to my room.

I stood under the scalding shower for an eternity, feeling as though I would never be clean. I’d had to remember the _thing_ in detail once again, to give the memory to Potter.

"Thank you." He took the vial. "You won't have to go through this again. They'll be able to make copies, if need be."

_Copies._

I nodded dumbly, staring at my hands. "Yeah. I think, I... I need to lie down."

Weasley watched me from the sofa, his face grim, and Granger was scribbling in her notebook. I stood up from the desk and walked out of the library, feeling Weasley's heavy gaze on my back.

After the shower, I went to bed and tossed and turned for a long time. When I'd finally begun to doze off, the door opened quietly, letting in a thin trail of light from the corridor.

"Draco?.. Are you asleep?" Potter whispered loudly.

"No."

He half-stepped into the room. "Hermione is taking the case."

"Good," I said. I felt sick. "Thank you."

It's been two weeks, and it seems it will never be over. Never enough. I move through a haze. Because all this can't be possibly happening to _me. A_ s though from a distance, I watch as someone else's life unfolds on the pages and in the Prophet headlines. It's just that someone else is _me_. He doesn't feel like me though. I don't feel like him either. I am someone else, too. I have nothing to do with all this.

Potter brings letters from Mother. I ask him to tell her that I'm _fine_ , but I’d rather not speak to anyone just yet and that I’d prefer to stay at Potter's house until the hearing is over.

Granger had suggested it. "The reporters cannot harass you there," she had said.

I met Theo in court. He stared at me across the courtroom, sitting next to his barrister. I felt the urge to bolt out and run, or to grab my wand and kill him on the spot. No, to slash his face open, to draw blood with some vile curse, torturing him, until his features would cease to be recognisable. I looked away.

Theo's parents had contacted Granger through his barrister, she’d told me. They'd offered an _arrangement:_ money for taking my counterclaim back. A lot. Theo would cancel his initial claim, and the case would be closed due to the both parties reaching mutual agreement.

Father had written to me, insisting that I accept:

_‘Although you are no longer my son, Draco, I haven't ceased to care about you. I strongly recommend that you accept the Notts' offer, and be done with this inconvenience.’_

The thing is, Granger explained to me, that I’d used the Unforgivable on him repeatedly. Even though I'd obviously done it in self-defence, the Unforgivable is still Unforgivable. That's where Theo's barrister stands; that's the claim he is trying to push, demanding Azkaban for me for the use of the Cruciatus.

 _‘Excessive use of magic in self-defence,’_ that's the term.

Potter doesn't appear with me in court. Granger had advised against it.

"No need to feed a gossip," she had said. She's probably right.

By this point, I know nothing. I just do everything she says.

"Hermione knows shit," Weasley had told me after the first day in court, "just listen to her and do what you are told... _Black._ " He cringed at the name that came out. "This is insane."

Potter watches me warily when I come back home at the end of the day. They spend a lot of time in the library, the three of them: he, Weasley and Granger. I don't know what they discuss. I usually go to bed.

We don't talk about the hearing with Potter. He never asks. All that he needs to know, he already knows from Granger.

He and I don't talk much at all since the hearing began. Still, his presence makes me feel safe. I need it.

**

Granger knows shit. She does.

By the end of the third week, I am cleared of all charges, and Theo is sentenced to one year in Azkaban.

Granger is dissatisfied. "I can't _believe_ they've given him _ONE_ year!"

"You've done great, Hermione." Potter hugs her.

We are in the Ministry Atrium. Mother is gripping my hand, and the flashes of the cameras, as though in a slow motion, are making everything look black and white and surreal.

"Ms. Granger." Mother drops my hand. "May I have a minute of your time?"

Granger nods, and the two of them head to the side, making their way through the crowd of the reporters, leaving Potter and me in the middle. Mother's going to talk cost with Granger for her services.

"I think we should go," Potter says.

We had agreed that I would return to Grimmauld after the hearing.

I nod, and we begin to make our way to the exit.

"Mr. Potter! What is your involvement in Draco Black's case?! Mr. Potter! One word please! Mr. Black! Turn to the camera!"

I cover my face and follow Potter to the main entrance. Once outside, he grabs my hand, Apparating us to the Grimmauld living room.

I drop his hand, and he steps away, not meeting my eyes.

"How do you feel?" He asks, taking his glasses off.

I've learned that this is the thing Potter _does_ , when he feels embarrassed, unsettled or out of his depth. He takes his glasses off, so as not to see a person's face. A childish thing. This is what small kids do, playing hide and seek. They just close their eyes, thinking that as long as they can't see anything, they're invisible to the world.

"Awful," I say. And it's true. I'm grateful to Granger and all... and I know, this is the best outcome imaginable. I just don't feel it. I'm worn out. I am not alive anymore, and I don't know if I'm ever going to be.

"I need to lie down," I say, "if you don't mind."

This is what I do. Come home and lie down.

"Yeah, sure. Do." He nods. "I'll be in my room. Just... you know..."

"Okay." I head to the door.

Once in my room, I change into my pyjamas and climb into bed. I can't sleep.

I go to the bathroom to stare at myself in the mirror. I look like shit. I'd almost ceased to eat since the hearing began. It's been three weeks, and I look like a skeleton.

"He probably needs a Mind-Healer." I heard Granger told Potter a few days ago.

I probably do. I'm just not sure if I'm ready to deal with it at the moment.

I hear Potter moving around his room, the floorboards creaking under his footsteps, until the noise dies down, and the room goes silent. I come close to his door, leaning my forehead against it. I don't know for how long I stand like this, but when I finally bring myself to press the handle and enter, the room is dark.

He's asleep, I think, beginning to close the door, when: "Draco?" He says quietly. "Come in."

I come in, uncertain what to do next. I do know why I've come here in the first place.

"Come in," he repeats, sitting up in the bed. It's not as dark as it has seemed to me at first. The soft glow of the streetlamps is streaming from the window.

My heart thudding, I approach the bed.

"Can't sleep?" He asks.

"No."

"Me too."

I'm standing right beside his bed; he is looking up at me in the dark.

"Sit down," he says. His hand finds mine.

He pulls lightly, and I obey.

"Come here," he says, throwing back the blanket, "don't worry... I don't mean... anything, just..."

I don't worry. He's the only person with whom I don't.

Not releasing his hand, I lie down to face him, and he mirrors my position, pulling up the blanket over us both.

We are not touching, except for our locked hands, and it feels so good. He places his other hand over mine in his grip.

"Good night," he says.

**

"Draco, dear." Mother hugs me, and I squeeze her in return.

"You room is ready. Do you need a rest?"

"No."

Mother's flat is pretty and airy. Light colours and elegance. So very unlike his house. So very like I wanted his house to be one day.

"Good bye," he'd said to me just a few minutes ago, fiddling with his glasses.

"Good bye, and... thank you, Potter. For everything."

"No problem." He shrugged. "So..."

"So... Yeah." I held out my hand.

He took it. "See you. Maybe. Sometimes?"

"See you." I nodded. There was a sudden lump in my throat.

"Bye." I Apparated from the porch.

Mother takes me by the arm. "I am so happy to finally have you here, Draco."

I nod. I am happy to see her, too.

**

It's been a month, and I feel better.

Spending most of my time in Muggle London, I keep myself occupied. I resumed my college studies, and things are getting back to normal, but...

I miss him.

I miss him badly. I cannot help it.

I haven’t seen him since I left his house. And there's no reason for us to meet. No pretext.

There was an article in the Prophet. Right after the hearing.

_‘ENEMIES TO LOVERS? What the mysterious house of Harry Potter may conceal.’_

My eye had caught the headline on the table of Mother's parlour.

_‘It has become known from reliable sources that Draco (formerly Malfoy) Black (22), the disowned heir of the Malfoy family, and the rape victim of Theodore Nott (23) (who was sentenced to one year in Azkaban during his recent hearing in the Wizengamot), has been living in Harry Potter's residence in London, ever since the aspiring Auror (22) found him after his mysterious disappearance._

_Considering both men are confirmed to be gay, the nature of their relationship is being revealed in a new light indeed. It raises several questions, which, however, Mr. Potter refused to answer, and neither did he give any comments on Draco Black's whereabouts._

_(Harry Potter (22), came out as gay two years ago, and has been single ever since. He and Draco at-the-time-Malfoy were known as vicious rivals during their school days at Hogwarts._

_'They always hated each other' - a reliable source confirms._

_'But probably there was more to it than met the eye' - another witness says  - 'Their interactions have always been pretty intense. And probably the nature of that tension is of another kind... As they say, there's a fine line between passion and hatred. If you know what I mean.')_

Enemies to Friend _s, or Enemies to Lovers? It remains to be seen._

_Meanwhile, keep up with our latest news!’_

Swearing, I hurled the newspaper into the fireplace.

But some parts of it had stuck with me: _‘Came out as gay two years ago.’_

I’d had no idea. I don't think I'd ever considered Potter to be out in the first place.

I look down at the drawing board on my lap. The charcoal sketch of the Tower Bridge is almost finished.

I've spend the whole morning here, sitting on a bench by the river, making sketches of the city architectural forms for my college project.

The sun is bright. I lean back against the bench and close my eyes, letting the breeze caress my face and hair. It's a nice day, and I feel good. Calm, content. Nothing else is needed.

"Hi."

I open my eyes.

Potter is grinning at me, leaning against the railings a few feet away.

I blink.

My heart skips.

"How are you doing?" He says.

"Hi."

I am suddenly hot all over and absolutely have to occupy my hands. I look down at the drawing board, fiercely beginning to move a piece of charcoal in my fingers over the paper.

"May I?" He asks, making me look up. He gestures at the bench beside me.

"Yes. Please do," I squint at him, his glasses reflecting the sunlight right into my eyes.

He sits down next to me and peers at my drawing. And I swallow as his shoulder brushes mine. My pulse is hammering in my temples. I need to breathe.

"How are you?" He asks, glancing in turns between the Tower Bridge over the river and my sketch of it.

How am I? I don't know. I'm not sure what exactly he's asking.

Overall I'm fine; as fine as I can be.

How am I right now, seeing him for the first time in a month? I am weak with... _something_ , and my heart is racing. He is so close, and I am dying silently, aware of his shoulder brushing mine. I feel my face burning, and no doubt he sees, I cannot help it.

"I'm glad to see you." It is the least and the most I am able to say right now.

I'm not just _glad,_  I'm... _wild._ Because finally, when he's here, I almost cringe in pain at how I missed him. I don't know what I'm going to do when he leaves.

"Are you, really?" He asks. "You hadn't called, I thought..."

"What?" No, I hadn't. But how could I? It's not that simple.

"I wanted to,” he says, “but..."

He wanted to? I stare at him. "Why didn't you?"

"I thought, that you'd want to be left alone, so..."

He's right. I wanted to be left alone, just... He was the only person that wouldn't be unwelcome.

"And there were no particular reason, no business to seek you out," he continues, looking at the river, "but then I thought... maybe it's okay - to call without any reason? To come and see you, just because I wanted to - maybe it would be just fine?"

"It's fine," I say, "perfectly fine. I'm glad that you did."

Something lifts off my chest. Maybe, if he says so... Maybe he'll want to come and see me again sometime?

"So I found out your mother’s address... and went there, but she said you were out here. She also said it's your birthday."

Mother. I roll my eyes. I didn't want to deal with it, I just wanted to be alone.

"I assume you don't want to... your birthday, I mean..."

"No, I don't," I say, watching him out of the corner of my eye.

He's in jeans and a plain T-shirt, and his haircut is a bit different: shorter at the sides, longer at the top, unruly fringe falling over his eyebrow. He looks good.

"And I didn't mean anything," he says, "I just... didn't know it's your birthday, and now I know... that's all. So happy birthday." He looks at me.

He is mumbling, and it's ridiculous... I feel so bright, so simply happy like I haven't felt in a long time. Just because he's sitting next to me.

"Thanks," I say.

"Kreacher misses you, you know. And the house, too, I think. Though I’m not good in talking to it... So I thought..." He trails off.

"What?"

"Come to dinner?" He blurts. "If you want... I mean... If you don't, it's perfectly fine… and..."

"When?" I ask, having trouble with my thudding heart.

"Tonight?.. Or anytime... Name the day."

He's inviting me for dinner, and he doesn't know when. It's Potter, he is... _Potter_.

"Tonight." I nod. "Tonight would be fine."

"Really?" He smiles. "Great. Tonight, eight o'clock. Okay?"

"Okay."

He stands up. "Good. See you." He nods and stuffs his hands in his pockets. "Eight o'clock." He begins walking away along the pavement.

I stare at his retreating back until he disappears.

**

_It’s a revelation_

_There's no hell in what I've found,_

_No kingdom shout_

_How the tides are changing_

_As you liberate me now_

_And the walls come down_

_\--Troye Sivan & Jónsi, ‘Revelation’, OST for the film ‘Boy Erased’-- _

"Master Black." Kreacher bows, letting me inside. "Happy Birthday!"

"Thank you, Kreacher."

"Hi!" Potter waves at me over Kreacher's head. "Come in!"

I come in and stop, looking around. The hall looks different. It looks how I drew it in my sketches. Exactly. It is light and airy, and the walls are ivory-white. Everything's new: the floorboards, the panels, the lamps on the walls.

"Wow!"

"Surprise!" Potter grins. "I started to fulfil your project. It seems like the house likes it."

"House like," Kreacher confirms. He is dressed in a new starched white linen napkin, and even his ears look starched. "Masters is welcome to dining room."

I glance at Potter.

"Kreacher insists, it's dining room tonight," he says solemnly over Kreacher's head, "come on."

I follow him along the hall.

"Thank Merlin, you're not in robes," he says, when we are seated at the table, "Kreacher assured me you'd arrive dressed to the nines; so he insisted that I should put on my formal set of robes." He wiggles his eyebrows at me, making me laugh.

The tension is broken. I'm in a Muggle white button-down and black trousers. Potter's in a T-shirt and jeans. Which is good.

"Dinner is been serves!" Kreacher announces from the doorway, and the dishes appear on the table. With a snap of his fingers, champagne is poured into our flutes.

"Bon Appétit!" He disappears with a loud crack.

"Kreacher!" I call loudly.

He appears again in the doorway.

"Do come and dine with us." I glance at Potter. "Please."

"Please," Potter repeats.

Mumbling something under his breath that sounds like “Generous Masters,” Kreacher takes a seat to my left. Potter waves his hand, and the chair grows up in height, lifting Kreacher up to our level.

"Thank you, Master," he bows.

The dinner is excellent, but I am so wound up, I barely eat. So is Potter. We drink, exchanging glances over the table. Kreacher is the one talking. All this is surreal.

"Masters may proceed to the living room," Kreacher says after a while, "Master Black play music if he want, and Master is listen. Kreacher is not disturb Masters."

"Okay," I stand up, and Potter follows. Together we exit the dining room.

"He's taking the evening schedule seriously," Potter giggles, as we enter the living room.

"Do you mind?" He gestures at the piano.

"Not at all." I come up to the instrument and open the lid. "So?" I sit down.

"So?" Potter leans against the back of the sofa.

"What do you want me to play?"

"You’re asking _me?_ " He laughs. "You know, I'm not an expert. Just... _Play_." He waves his hand. "Play whatever you feel like."

"Okay."

Closing my eyes, I touch the keys, running my fingers over them lightly, and begin to play.

I picture Potter's face as I know it: laughing, grinning at me... I picture him serious... and calm... and bewildered... different... I remember his face very close to me in the darkness, when we fell asleep together, holding hands... I imagine his face as I've never seen it - very close, leaning in for a kiss.

I pour him whole – as I know him - into the music... I am surprised at how easily, how swiftly it comes, rushing up like tears - but those are happy ones - flowing without effort... At the same time, I'm not surprised at all. When my fingers finally stop, the melody fading, I look up.

He is leaning against the back of the sofa with his eyes closed.

Silence falls.

He opens his eyes. We look at each other for an eternity, until he stands up.

I stand up.

Slowly, we walk towards each other, meeting in the middle.

His face is so close. Exactly as I've been imagining it only a moment ago.

If I knew what to do or how, I would certainly make it right. I would grab his face between my palms; I would crush his lips to draw blood. I would be bold and reckless and sure. I don't know how.

"I really want to kiss you," I say instead.

"You may," he says, taking his glasses off, "if you want."

His eyes are dark and vulnerable, and without the glasses they are even more intense. We are of the same height, or maybe he's shorter a half of an inch, I don't know. He is staring at me, unmoving, and I realise he is holding his breath.

"I want," I say.

"Then do." He nods.

And I do.

And... _Oh..._

I've never kissed a man before, but it is not a man, it's _him._

_HIM._

I brush my lips against his, barely so, and it's already too much. It's not enough. I put my hand on his neck.

 _More_.

His glasses clatter against the floor, and I feel his hand sliding up my back.

I still.

"Sorry." He drops his hand. "Sorry, it's not," he whispers, "I won't touch you, unless you tell me to."

I know he won't.

Cupping his face, I kiss him again, and again, drinking in his every breath. His eyes are closed, he is barely breathing, his lips don't move, I want him to kiss me back.

He does.

Slowly, he responds, and his lips are so tender. I'm dying... this is too much... I have to breathe. I tilt his head back.

He obeys.

I press my face to his neck, to where the vein is beating wild at the base of his throat, and inhale. He smells of... I don't know how to name it. That dry warm scent I've come to associate with him; the one that I loved so much on his grey woollen sweater. I haven't forgotten - how could I?

I can't get enough.

His heartbeat under my palm is fast and steady, measuring the moments with a heavy rhythm. I slide my hands up and over his shoulders, finally stepping back.

He watches me.

I come close again, walking around, and press myself into him from behind. Only now I realise: all this time he's been holding his hands clasped behind his back.

I want to feel him whole, I want to _know..._

Rubbing my face against his nape like a cat, I wind my arms around him and squeeze, feeling his strong shoulders and hard chest.

I want it all.

Sliding my palms down his sides, my fingers brush the hem of his T-shirt.

"May I?" I whisper in his ear.

"Yes."

I grip at the fabric and tug, pulling it over his head, and he raises his arms to help me.

_Finally._

I touch my palms to his bare shoulders, tracing his skin with my fingertips. Over his shoulder blades and down, along his spine.

His skin is smooth. He is so beautiful.

I know he’s wild, though he appears tamed.

"Do whatever you want." He turns his head to the side. "Anything. You don't have to ask."

_Anything._

I bend down and press my lips to his shoulder blade, to his unyielding back. My arms slide around his sides to touch his stomach, to feel coarse hair below his navel. I turn him around to face me.

His eyes are closed.

I run my thumb over his cheekbone, down his face and along the edge of his jaw, until, sliding up his chin, it stops at his lower lip.

He exhales. Barely. And finally opens his eyes. His gaze is cautious and waiting and patient. And... _oh how impatient_ it is.

I step back to look at him, giving myself a moment to comprehend _what_ he is allowing me.

His chest is flushed, his hands are at his sides. He is completely still.

_MORE._

Reaching out, I place my finger at the base of his throat, sliding it down and down, until it reaches his belt and stops.

I don't have to ask, he said.

Do I?

I do.

"May I?" I ask, stepping closer, and when he nods, I realise he is trembling.

"Anything," he whispers, "whatever you want." He clasps his hands behind his back. "You may tie my hands."

I don't know, but...

_I don't know..._

_YES_

My heart thudding, I step behind him and lightly touch my fingers to his locked wrists, saying a simple spell.

It is barely anything.

_Nothing._

If he wanted to break free, it wouldn't stop him. But because of that very reason, it is _there._

It is everything.

And more.

I step in front of him. Taking his face in my palms, I kiss him, slow and hot, and our tongues finally meet, our breaths urgent. I am so hard.

With his hands tied, I feel suddenly bolder, suddenly reckless, suddenly free.

I tug at his belt buckle, unfastening it, and jerk his jeans and pants down in one movement; his cock springs out.

I stare.

It's dark and flushed, standing out of coarse hair.

My breath comes out shaky.

"It's... nothing...it's just a..." He looks down. "Nothing needs to happen." His voice is a bit unsteady. "Do whatever you want... or you may do nothing at all."

I know.

_I know._

"I want to touch you," I say.

He nods.

I wrap my hand around his cock.

It fills my palm, hot to the touch and thick. The skin is so smooth, so tender, that I'm suddenly afraid to hurt him.

"Is this okay?" I ask.

He nods.

I give it a careful stroke, and another one, watching as the flushed head disappears inside my fist.

He gasps. His eyes are closed. He is trembling.

I move my hand, over and over, fascinated by his face. His lips part, and he winces... and holds his breath... and swallows and exhales.

I kiss his jaw and the side of his face; I wrap my arm around his back for support.

My hand is relentless.

He leans into me and gasps, and presses his face into the side of my neck. His breath is harsh and hot against my skin, and when it suddenly catches, I feel his shudder and a whispered moan. Warmth spills through my fingers, and I feel wetness through the front of my shirt. He shudders one last time and stills, leaning heavily into me.

I hold him for a while, evening my own breaths.

He leans back, his gaze delirious, and smiles at me.

I kiss him.

When his hands wrap around my back, I realise he's broken free of the bonds.

I don't mind.

He cups my face and kisses me, long and languid...

I am so hard.

"I want you to touch me," I whisper into his mouth.

He breaks the kiss to look at me.

"I want you to touch me," I repeat.

The heady words make me dizzy. With anticipation and fear and lust.

Releasing me, he tugs his jeans up, hastily fastening the belt, and takes my hand, leading me to the sofa.

When I sit and he straddles me, his fingers undoing the buttons of my shirt, I realise I am shaking.

I am scared, but not afraid. It's not that. With him, I'm not afraid. It's just... I'm scared. I've never done this before. That's all.

"You alright?" He spreads the shirt open, placing his palms on my chest.

His touch is warm and safe and so... _Oh..._

"Yes," I reply.

Sliding off my lap, he looms over me, bending down to kiss my chest, to trace his tongue down my stomach, to press his nose into my belly and groan.

When he unfastens my trousers, I buck my hips up, helping him remove them. My underwear follows.

He kneels on the carpet, between my open thighs. I am laid bare before him.

He squeezes my cock in his hand, giving it a sure stroke.

"You are so big."

"Am I?" I throw my head back; I am not able keep it upright.

"You are," he says.

What happens next sends an electric jolt through me, my hand grasping the arm of the sofa.

His mouth is so hot, moving up and down, and when he sucks... I cannot help crying out. This is too much.

_MORE._

I look down. His head is moving; he holds at my thighs for support, I can't see his face.

_I can’t..._

Sliding my fingers into his hair, I press into his scalp, throwing my head back.

Everything is rising in me, my mind suddenly blank, until I can no longer bear it... But there's still more, and more, and _MORE... AND..._

_"Ah!.."_

I cry out.

And again.

My legs are trembling, and even my toes curl...

And finally, it shoots through me, stingingly-sweet and hot.

Coughing, he withdraws. I look down at him, my breath laboured.

He grins, wiping his chin and mouth, and then rubs his palm against his jeans.

"Fuck..." Is all I am able to utter.

**

A sound wakes me, I open my eyes. It is dark, only a thin trail of light spilling from under the bathroom door.

The sound of running water. Silence. The light switches off. The door opens.

He walks towards the bed.

I prop myself on my elbow. "What time is it?"

"Around two, or... something."

Last night, after... what had happened in the living room, we went straight to bed.

Overwhelmed and dizzy, I was so exhausted... I passed out instantly, feeling his arm around me.

He climbs into bed, sliding under the blanket. He is naked and hot, and his erection pokes my hip.

I am hard, too. _Very._

Not asking this time, he wraps his hand around my nape, kissing me. Insistent and forward, his tongue doing _things._ I don't mind. I press into him.

He cards his fingers through hair of my groin, giving it a tug. This is something new, something else, other than we've already had; it makes me wild; it scares me.

I jerk.

"Shhh..." His whisper is hot in my ear. "I just thought... would you..." He swallows. _"I want you to fuck me."_

My heart skips. "What?"

"If it's okay?" He looms over me.

"I've never done it," I utter.

This is insane. Utterly crazy. I want it, I do... but... I don't know...

"I know," he says.

"Okay."

"Don't worry," he says, "I'll tell you how." He sits back.

"Right."

Fuck. Okay, good. I'm trembling - just a bit - staring up at him.

And when he says: "I've prepared myself, it's okay..."

_FUCK._

I am so aroused, my mind goes blank.

He kisses me, again and again, throwing the blanket off. I grip at his shoulders, rolling him around, and push him down on his back. Our erections press into each other, making us gasp.

I kiss his neck and that vulnerable spot under his jaw, barely grazing it with my teeth. He smells of... _him,_ and it makes me wild, makes me want to breathe in lungful of him, makes me both scared and bold.

He bucks up into me, opens his legs wide and whispers: "Come on."

And I don't know how I am to survive.

"Slowly," he says, when I guide my cock to press against his entrance.

I push, and his breath catches. His fingers dig into my arm. I prop myself on my elbows above him.

"Fuck... you're _big_ ," he utters, and in the moonlight I see that he winces.

"Sorry," I say, not daring to breathe, aware that I should probably withdraw and stop hurting him. I most certainly should.

I don’t want to.

I am afraid, I’m not able to.

But if he asked me to, I would have to, and I would.

I would die if he asked me to.

He is _so tight_ around me, and I am so selfish. I am so cruelly desperate to get what I want.

“Stop… wait,” he whispers, his breath laboured.

I don’t want to stop, I don’t want to wait. Right now, I can’t think at all, and blood is pounding in my temples. The only thing I want - is to _slam_ forward, _hard,_ and pull back again, and repeat, repeat, _repeat… fucking repeat,_ until my pleasure tears me apart, until it ruins him.

I stop.

"Wait..." He breathes deeply, and I see his face relaxes and lips part.

I wait.

And wait.

And wait, listening to his breath.

I kiss him, and he opens up, meeting my tongue and melting.

"It's okay," he says against my lips, "come on."

Holding my breath, I _slide,_ long and slow, all the way down, until there's no further to go, and our bodies are pressed flush. I exhale.

"You're _so big_." He swallows. "Wait a sec."

He breathes, and I breathe with him... Until I feel his legs wrap around the back of my thighs.

_"Move.”_

I move.

 _Slowly_ , all the way back, almost... just barely, not to slip out. And forth, all the way down and _in..._

This is too much. I stop.

"Alright?" I peer into his face.

His eyes are closed. He nods.

"I may not last," I say.

"Go on."

And I do, rocking above and inside him. His hand is moving over his cock between us.

"Come on." His breath is ragged, his hand a blur.

Holding back with all my might, I speed up, becoming frantic, becoming breathless, moving and moving, until I can no longer last. My pleasure makes me shudder, makes me jerk and dig my fingers into his shoulder. I go liquid, my body flowing, and he takes it all.

He tightens around me and cries out, as though in pain, over and over, and grips at my thigh, his other hand flying frantic, spilling hot between us, and it seems like he'll never stop.

Together we fall onto the sheets.

"I'm crushing you," I mumble into his shoulder.

"Yeah," he says, and I move to lie next to him, my breath evening out.

We lie in silence, and I trail my fingers along his sticky stomach, over his come drying on cooling skin. And though I’m still a bit shocked at what has just happened… It feels so right, as though lying next to him is where I finally belong.

Maybe it is.

“I’m cold,” he says, tugging at the blanket to cover us both.

I wrap my arm around his waist, and he presses into my side.

“That’s better.” I feel the brush of his lips against my temple.

I don’t know who falls asleep first.

**

______________________________________________________________________

 

[1]: _"I am gay. And I am your son. And neither of those things is going to change."_

 _–_ quote from the film ‘Boy Erased’.


	3. Epilogue

Chapter 3

**Epilogue**

_You’re revelation..._

You step through the Floo into your living room, shrugging your uniform jacket off on the way.

A sound is flowing from above, you look up. The piano. You smile.

Sad and piercingly bright - hopeful and beautiful - a melody fills the house; you've never heard this one before. The living room around you is bright and airy, filled with sunlight. Exactly like he imagined it. You love it.

You throw your jacket at the back of the armchair, rolling up the sleeves of your uniform shirt. You are halfway to the door, but something makes you stop and walk back to the mantel. It is the music, you think, as you observe numerous framed photographs. They are not Wizard photos, they are unmoving - just simple stills from a Muggle camera. You like them better that way. As though time has stopped.

Each and every one is a bright moment with the man you love: here he is laughing, hugging you from behind; he’s wearing your glasses, and his bright hair is gleaming golden in the winter sun. The next one is from Pisa, two years ago, you and him, and the Leaning Tower in the background. The next one is from New York, you'd spent New Year's Eve skating in the Central Park. And the next one...

You pick the frame to look at it closely. There are a lots and lots of pictures, _but this one_ ... is special.

One year ago to the day. The two of you are standing side by side, clad in Muggle jeans, identical plain white T-shirts and black bow-ties. You lean against a railing, the Houses of Parliament in the background. You are showing off your left hands to the camera, wearing identical white-gold wedding rings.

 _‘4 June, 2005,’_ reads the date in the corner.

The papers then had gone viral: _‘ENEMIES TO HUSBANDS: The hottest and most controversial romance of the century!’_

You look down at the ring on your finger, remembering this brilliant year, and those three that had come before. Since that night of his birthday, when you'd gathered your courage, inviting him to dinner...

You’ve been inseparable ever since.

Tomorrow’s his birthday...

Smiling, you put the photograph carefully down.

The music above is flowing and unfolding. It reminds you of _something..._ you can't quite remember what...

Heading to the kitchen, you take a bottle of white wine out of the fridge and pour two glasses. Carrying them, you head to the hall and up the staircase, up and up, music growing louder the higher you climb.

The house is beautiful, he’d made it so, and you admire his work.

He’s an architect. In the past four years he's built a lot of Muggle houses and changed many Wizarding ones. Grimmauld had been his very first project. Nothing is left of its ancient gloominess. It is all air and light, and yet... its essence is the same.

The house _loves_ your husband _._

Once in the rooftop garden, you head to the narrow spiral staircase in the corner, climbing up and up to the melody, until you emerge on the balcony and stop.

Draco is sitting at the piano, absorbed in the music flowing from beneath his fingertips. He doesn't see you, and you lean against the doorframe, watching.  

You look and look: at his sharp profile against the setting sun; at his bright hair, dishevelled by the breeze; at his strong slender fingers, drawing magic out of the piano.

You close your eyes, drifting along with the music. Music that makes you want to cry and smile, rendering you sad and happy, stinging inside your very heart with hope.

When it fades into the evening air, you open your eyes to see that he is watching you.

"Hi." You push yourself off the doorframe and head to the coffee table by the small sofa to put the glasses down. "Composing?"

He nods, and his smile is a bit awkward, but you know perfectly well when he is content with his play.

You come up to hug him from behind, resting your chin at the top of his head. Sliding his hands up your arms, he looks up, and you lean down to catch him in the upside-down kiss. You feel how his lips smile against yours.

"It's beautiful," you say, "I've never heard this one before."

"I call it _Revelation._ " Draco touches your fingers. "It reminds me of you.”

"Play it again," you say.

He plays...

... The melody is swimming in the twilight air, and the city below lights up the fading sky...

... And when you whisper: _"I love you"_ into his hair...

... it's not a revelation for either of you...

_**\--- the end ---** _

 

**_I am on Tumblr:[big-draco-energy](https://big-draco-energy.tumblr.com/)_ **

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> You are very welcome to share your thoughts in comments below. <3


End file.
